


Out for Blood

by SBG



Category: NCIS, Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-15
Updated: 2007-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:45:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SBG/pseuds/SBG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone or thing from Dean and Sam Winchester's past comes back to haunt them, and someone from NCIS gets drawn in as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Gibbs hadn't sounded thrilled with the early morning call, but then Gibbs never sounded thrilled about anything. Dead sailor, lots of blood and gore. This death was even worse than their usual cases, apparently, with the potential markings of a sociopath on the loose. Tony hoped beating the rest of the crew to the scene would also help him beat them to the punch. Getting on the boss's good side might help things go more smoothly. He pulled the car alongside the curb in front of a nice condominium with a well-groomed lawn and got out, pulling his "travel" kit with him. He wouldn't do much until the others got there, but Gibbs had taught him a long time ago to never leave home without some basic tools of their trade. He stretched his arms wide.

"Hey guys," Tony said as he approached the four cops standing outside the condo. Three of them looked a little green around the gills, and he guessed the fourth hadn't actually gone inside or he'd be in the same boat. He grimaced. Great, maybe breakfast first hadn't been a great idea after all. He flashed his badge. "Special Agent Tony DiNozzo, NCIS. What can you tell me?"

"I'm Officer Reynes," the greenest of the green said in greeting, then pointed to his colleagues. "And this is Smith, Lykken and Peters. We got a call about suspicious activity surrounding the home. We went in, saw the guy was dead and a sailor, and got out. We called off our CS unit before we even called you in, so nothing substantial has been done. Thought we'd leave that all up to you guys."

"You sound relieved."

"Yes, sir. Whoever killed the guy is one sick bastard. It's pretty bad in there."

Tony nodded sympathetically. Internally, he groaned. It really was going to be a long day, but he'd discovered another advantage to being the only one there: he could react without facing the scorn of Gibbs or the ridicule of Probie and Ziva. Years on the job hadn't managed to harden him completely, which he didn't consider a bad thing. Just an embarrassing thing.

"How'd you know the vic was a sailor, Officer Reynes?" he said. The rest of the group didn't look like talkers.

"Must have just got off duty or something. He's in uniform."

"Ah. You guys mind sticking around and keeping the scene secure until the rest of my team arrives?"

"As long as we can do it out here," Reynes said, and his two sickly-looking friends nodded with no small amount of enthusiasm.

"Sure. You can wait by your vehicles if it'll make you feel better," Tony said. They looked collectively humiliated. He gave them a smile. "Actually, I don't want to be embarrassed by knowing you all are out here listening to me puke."

"Speaking of, the puddle next to the stairs here is from Lykken. It's not evidential to the case."

"Noted."

Lykken looked to be all of twelve and he'd be damned if that didn't make Tony feel old. Poor kid. The officers all took his recommendation, moving further away from the secured building. Tony jogged up the stairs and ducked under the yellow police tape they'd slapped across the door. In two steps he could see into the room where the event had occurred, saw the copious amount of blood on the floor, ceiling and walls. In three steps he saw the atrocious condition of the body – at least the unclothed parts. In four steps he saw…someone else was in the room and was currently headed toward the body, someone not wearing a cop uniform.

He ducked behind the doorframe, quietly set his kit down and drew his weapon. This really might be his lucky day; he'd nab the killer right there and then before Gibbs even arrived. Hail the conquering hero and all that. Tony contemplated getting the cops for backup – if this was the killer, and who else would it be, he was apparently a raging psycho – but the risks of the murderer hearing him or sneaking away again before he could reenter the house were too great. He had the advantage here. He'd be fine. He'd have the guy in cuffs and then wait around to watch McGee and Ziva give him dirty, jealous looks. He smiled and silently slid into the room.

The perp knelt by the body now, leaning over it. Tony knew serials usually went after women, and that sometimes they came back for…visitation rights…with their victims. This wasn't part of a serial type killing because the body would probably have been found in a much more remote place, the victim and the killer were both male, and mostly because his intuition was telling him it was different from any serial pattern he was familiar with. That, and he actually had no idea at all if there were related deaths and was just filling in blanks where there probably weren't blanks to fill. He was overthinking. There was no reason a killer would come back with the cops still on scene, unless he was crazy or stupid. Tony voted this guy crazy, stupid and caught. He took aim.

"Federal agent," Tony announced, moderating his voice to low and even. The guy stiffened, shifted slightly like he was reaching for something. "No, you don't. Put your hands where I can see them, and stay on your knees."

Tony aimed the gun at the left shoulder. If he had to shoot, he didn't want it to be for the kill. He preferred to put people behind bars, where they could live with their mistakes. The guy's shoulders slumped slightly as he uttered a low curse, but he raised his hands slowly. Tony took a second to size the man up. Even without seeing his face, he looked rough. Old jeans. Worn and dirt-crusted boots. Leather jacket that was aged and scratched a little. He also noted the shoulders were broad, and that there was probably a fair amount of muscle under the jacket. He couldn't tell age, but the hair on the back of the head wasn't greyed so he guessed the perp was no older than himself; something told Tony he'd be tough to beat in a fight. Tony took another step into the room.

"What'd you do?" One step closer, then another. "Forget your trophy?"

"You've got it all wrong." Even the voice was rough, and yet somehow filled with earnestness. Tony frowned, kept moving forward slowly and carefully. "I didn't kill this guy."

"Of course you didn't," Tony said. He stood right behind the guy now. "You woke up this morning and decided you'd find a bloody crime scene to break into – nice touch doing it while the cops are right outside, by the way – just for _fun_."

"Fun isn't the word I'd use," the guy said. Tony walked around the dead sailor, carefully avoiding the blood spatter. The perp looked up at him with a rueful half smile and hazel eyes that didn't lie. Or maybe they lied all too well. The man looked more like a kid who'd grown up too fast and hard, which was usually a dangerous thing. "I'd have rather slept in, to tell you the truth."

"You're a funny man." Tony reached for his cuffs…and realized he didn't have them. Shit. "Just stay put for a second."

"Sure. Where am I going to go?"

Tony retraced his steps through the blood and headed for his kit. He couldn't remember if he had cuffs in there either. It wasn't like they had ever run into a killer at a crime scene. If worse came to worst, he could call the officers back in. He carefully kept his gun and an eye trained on the guy while he squatted down and rooted through the bag.

"Hurry up. My hands are falling asleep."

He rolled his eyes. Oh, yeah. Someone was a real smartass. Tony narrowed his eyes. The guy seemed really calm for the present situation, almost assured. Cocky son of a bitch probably thought he could still get away. Not on DiNozzo's watch. His fingers fumbled against a set of cuffs, luck continuing for him. Tony snagged them and hurried back.

"Okay, hands behind you."

"Really? I thought maybe we could do front." Another strange contradiction. The guy bitched and moaned the whole time he complied with no indication he was a fight or flight risk, and he should have wanted to do either or both. "I promise I'm not going to try anything. I hate sitting on my hands, dude."

"You know, you're pretty relaxed for a cold-blooded killer," Tony said.

"I told you," the guy said, grunting when Tony tightened the cuffs around his wrists. There was no blood on his hands, or anywhere on his person. He must have cleaned up before he came back. Tony furrowed his eyebrows. "I didn't kill this guy. In fact, I'm trying to find what did."

"Right. And where's the other Hardy Boy?" What? What did he mean, 'what'? Tony patted the guy down, found a handgun at his waist, a nasty looking knife strapped to his ankle. He waggled both in front of the guy, who gave one haughty sniff and looked smugly bored. "It's clear to me I'm wrong about you."

"Hey, man, don't judge a book by its cover. And if you mean Frank, I'm sure he's got his nose buried _in_ a book somewhere."

"Why are we talking so much? Enough chatting until you've been read your rights. I don't want this tossed out for improper procedure. Come on." Tony shifted his gun, reached down and half-hauled the guy to his feet. Plenty of muscle, he noted, and was relieved he'd had cuffs. "We're going to wait around until my team gets here, but I'm not fond of this location."

The guy chewed on his lip, eyebrows furrowing as he looked down at his victim. For a second, Tony thought he saw genuine regret on his face. A crazy thought that maybe this guy really wasn't lying flashed through his mind, and it was one more thing that didn't make sense. A normal person wouldn't seek out such gore, an innocent person wouldn't know where to look for it and therefore his perp was neither normal nor innocent.

"Thanks," the guy said, his eyes narrowing slightly. When he looked back up again, he appeared nervous. Finally, something Tony thought fit. "Do I still get one phone call even if you're not a real cop?"

"Doesn't quite work like that," Tony said dryly.

"Then before we take another step, you should know I'm not saying another word until I get a lawyer."

Ah, shit. Gibbs would not be happy this guy had lawyered up before he had the chance to question him. Not that there was any real need to question. The guy had been caught red-handed.

"You mind telling me your name?" It was worth a shot. Tony was sick of referring to him as 'guy.' His father used to call other men 'guy' all the time, even though he knew their names. "Unless you want to be called Bad Guy."

"What's _your_ name?"

"DiNozzo." Tony saw no reason to withhold that.

"Okay, DiNozzo. It's not nice to meet you. I'm Dan."

"Dan what?"

"McCafferty."

"Now don't you believe him. He's a liar and a killer."

The guy stiffened, and in unison he and Tony turned back around, searching for the person who belonged with the new voice. Tony had his gun at the ready again, aimed right at the heart of an attractive, dark-haired woman who stood above the corpse. She looked pissed and jubilant at the same time. How the hell had she got in, Tony thought dazedly, he hadn't heard a sound. He was close enough to his suspect to feel muscles tense, the energy around him electrifying.

"Uncuff me, uncuff me," the guy, Dan, growled. "Do it now, uncuff me!"

There was such coldness in the woman's eyes that Tony actually reached into his pocket for the key. He really would have, had time not suddenly slowed and sped up simultaneously. The woman _flew_ across the room at them, and suddenly they were surrounded by another, slighter woman and two guys. Tony's head reeled. Literally. Someone landed a punch. He took aim and discharged his weapon at his nearest attacker – he couldn't see who it was – and somehow missed hitting anything amid the tangle of limbs and curses and pain. He suddenly had a new theory about who had killed Petty Officer Frank Bowman. Beside him his former suspect cried out, not standing a chance in hell with his hands bound behind him. Within seconds, both he and Tony were held tightly.

"Took you long enough to catch up, Winchester. I thought we were going to have to start back across the country," the woman said. She leaned in close, the guy recoiled. Tony remained confused as hell. "Where's your daddy?"

"He's dead, bitch."

"Awww, that's so sad." The woman laughed humorlessly. "Where's the other one?"

"He's dead, too."

"Nope. I can smell him on you. Unless you had breakfast with a dead man, he's still around," she said, then looked at Tony. "This one's pretty. We're keeping him, for a while anyway. He could be useful."

Hands grabbed at him roughly, several more punches landed. There was unintelligible shouting, something sharp biting into his left bicep, stinging enough to know the injury drew blood. Tony fought against his captors instinctively, but it was useless. They were unbelievably strong and so fast he couldn't see them moving and where the _hell_ were the cop…

* * *

Sam Winchester paced the room aimlessly. He had a very bad feeling, deep down in the pit of his stomach. Dean should have been back already. Dean wasn't answering his cell. Dean was in trouble. He scrolled down to Dean's name on his cell again, pressed talk and waited. There was no answer, again, and he hadn't really expected one. It had been such a colossally bad idea, traipsing onto a crime scene before the cops were through with it. They'd done it before, but not while the body was still there. Sam should have made his brother wait, both for the cops to clear out and for Sam to join him.

Because, yeah, he could _make_ Dean do anything.

Sam chewed on his lip for a second. He didn't have much choice, really. He had to go to the scene himself. He was really starting to hate when cases brought them to big cities. They always got into bigger trouble than usual in bigger cities. It was like it was themed. St. Louis. Baltimore…they were _way_ too close to Baltimore right now for his liking. If this turned out to be what they thought it was, the potential for big trouble was very much there on a completely different front. They didn't need the law after them again at the same time.

He stewed in his thoughts all the way to the car. Then he stewed all the way to the crime scene. He parked the car four blocks away, and stewed as he walked the rest of the way, too. If the cops had busted Dean, Sam was going to have his work cut out for him. There were only so many times they could wiggle out from under the law, and he worried that they were approaching that final time. From a block away, Sam saw that the place was lit up with black and whites. There were several unmarked cars as well. If those had been there when he'd dropped Dean off, then Dean wouldn't have taken the risk. If they hadn't been there, then chances were Dean was, in fact, already in custody. Either way, Sam knew he was not getting anywhere near the place at the moment.

"Damnit, Dean," Sam muttered to himself. "You'd better be back at the motel when I get there."

He turned to retreat, then reconsidered. He might have the chance to learn a little about whom he was dealing with, just in case Dean wasn't back at the motel – and humans weren't exactly something he could research with Dad's journal or mythology books. Human patterns varied, even within structured organizations like law enforcement. Sam had to learn what he could about the people who held his brother in order to break his brother out. He skulked around, found a place to hide himself sufficiently out of sight…and saw a large truck parked in front of the condo for the first time. He squinted to read the block lettering. NCIS. Oh, shit. Feds.

Dean had probably been taken in by _feds_. It would only be a matter of time before the FBI caught wind of this, if they hadn't already tracked this killing and connected it to the eight others he and Dean had followed across the country. They'd call the cases solved, pin it all on Dean and he'd never see his brother again. Shit. Had he mentioned that? Because, _shit_.

He needed to get a grip. He was jumping to conclusions without having any solid information at all. Yeah, first things first. Sam had to make sure Dean actually was in trouble. Maybe Dean had just forgot to put his phone back on after leaving the crime scene. Sam wished he could get closer without being seen, because what he could see was limited to the spaces between vehicles. He watched as a man with silver hair and a bad suit jacket stormed out of the condo and pace along the sidewalk. Even from a distance Sam could tell the guy was pissed as hell. Two people wheeling out a gurney with a black, zippered body bag might have something to do with that anger. One of them loaded the body into the van, while the other spoke with the angry man briefly. Sam was no expert in body language, but it looked to him that this was somehow personal to them.

Sam frowned. These were the NCIS agents. He wondered where the uniformed police were, and ten seconds later he had his answer as two standard ME vans pulled up, and two more black and whites. This had become a multiple homicide. He shifted positions, finding a spot that afforded an angle that revealed more bodies. Even from a distance, he saw they were viciously torn apart. He recognized the brutality, the hunger behind it. They'd been right. Vampires. Bold ones. He only knew of two groups, and one group was not the type to draw attention to their existence.

Two more people in plainclothes came out of the condo and spoke with the older agent. Sam couldn't watch anymore. He had to assume Dean was either already in custody or back at the motel, because the only other option out there was not something he wanted to think about. He ran back to the car, and sped back to the motel.

Dean wasn't there.

Sam sat down on his bed, slight panic burbling up in him. Dean was in serious trouble and he was all alone. They were both all alone. He didn't know where to start and he was _all alone_ with this. He got up, paced some more, thought about all the calls he'd placed to Dean and how maybe someone had that phone and was even now figuring out Dean had a partner in supposed crime.

"Okay, okay," he said. "Get it together."

He sat back down on the bed, pulled his satchel close and booted his computer up. While he waited, he tugged the Yellow Pages out and found the first motel listed, his new living arrangements. Before he gathered their stuff together, though, Sam felt the call to do a little more digging. He had to know what had happened to Dean, not just what he thought had happened. The computer was all set. He did a search on NCIS, scanning the basic information on the governmental site's home page. He quickly figured out it wouldn't yield him the answers he needed, and now he knew what he had to do. It was crazy. It was stupid. It was dangerous as hell. It was a risk he was willing to take if it meant saving Dean.

Sam had to hack into NCIS's system.

* * *

  



	2. Chapter 2

Leroy Jethro Gibbs was angry as hell, and he was also very, very worried. He had one dead sailor, four dead cops and one missing (he refused to believe dead until he saw a body) Tony DiNozzo. He took a long swig of coffee that was too hot and it burned down his throat. The pain was actually preferable to doing what he was about to do. He didn't really want to see the carnage of Petty Officer Bowman's body again while he was in that annoying no-information-yet stage of investigation, because that could be happening to one of his at this very second. He didn't want the reminder. He didn't have a choice.

The elevator door opened and he stalked out. He could hear the lilting accented ramblings of the medical examiner as he talked either to himself, the corpse or maybe his twitchy assistant, even through the airlock door. Said door whooshed open when he approached and he crossed the threshold. Gibbs usually enjoyed the eccentricities of his old friend, and part of him admired the man's ability to cope with a job that was grim on a good day, and downright depressing on any number of others.

"Ducky, I need whatever you've got," Gibbs announced by way of greeting.

"Ah, Jethro, you're right on schedule," Doctor Donald "Ducky" Mallard said. He turned toward Gibbs, peering up at him. "I was just telling Mr. Palmer here…"

"About what killed this guy, and maybe even what motivated the killer." He glanced at Ducky's geeky assistant Palmer, who fidgeted and moved to the far side of the room. As usual. "Tell me we've got somewhere to start. Type of weapon?"

"Cause of death was fast and very simple to determine. Petty Officer Bowman here bled out. The weapon of choice, however, wasn't…traditional. See these marks here?" Ducky pointed to the gaping wound in the victim's neck, then on his chest and then his thigh. Someone had done a real hatchet job on Bowman, and it smacked of personal crime to him. He just couldn't reconcile that with them nabbing DiNozzo instead of killing him outright. "And here and here? They were not caused by the knife you found on scene. In fact, they're not knife wounds of any kind. I hate to say this, Jethro, but they all appear to be bite marks."

Gibbs winced.

"An animal didn't take DiNozzo, Ducky."

"I didn't say they looked like animal bites."

Gibbs' stomach turned. Oh, he really didn't want to hear what he already knew Ducky was going to tell him. He'd seen too many sick and twisted things in his day, but that didn't mean he wasn't wholly unaffected when something this messed up happened.

"Human?" he said, willing Ducky to contradict his guess.

"You know very well that humankind is capable of great barbarism," Ducky said slowly and dashed Gibbs' hopes. "I don't know that I can say with one hundred percent certainty that these are human bite marks, either, though. They're rather bizarre, and I can honestly say I've never seen anything like them. It's almost as if there are two separate sets of teeth for each bite, one on top of the other. I'll obviously keep working for an explanation on that."

Gibbs' gut kept on roiling. He hated it when Ducky expressed hesitation. He hated it most when one of his team's lives was at stake. If the bites weren't animal and they weren't human…but those were the only choices.

"Despite what looked like copious amounts of blood at the scene, there wasn't actually a great deal, all things considered," Ducky continued. "Someone exsanguinated this poor fellow and made off with quite a lot of his blood. I won't venture to guess for what purpose, but I don't need to tell you it cannot be good."

They were clearly dealing with someone crazy; Gibbs didn't need continuing education to figure that out. Some off-his-rocker punk had DiNozzo. The fact that his agent had been taken told Gibbs this was someone to contend with, never mind that he'd also taken out four armed cops. He scrubbed a hand down his face, walked over to the trash bin and chucked the rest of his coffee. Right now it was just burning a hole in his stomach, and he didn't need help from an outside source with that.

"You're saying one person did all this, took DiNozzo and killed the cops?"

"Nooo, actually." Ducky looked rueful. "I'm sorry. There are at least two distinct perpetrators. I haven't analyzed the bite on the thigh fully yet, so I don't know if a third attacker hit there while the other two, uhm, drained the fellow elsewhere. Bloody animals, after all. I don't think they're fit to call human."

Helpful, if not happy news. Knowing Tony got jumped by more than one person didn't make him feel any better about it. DiNozzo was no Marine, but he could take care of himself against multiple attackers. Of course, most attackers didn't dine on human flesh.

"I didn't get as detailed a look at the police officers on the scene, but I'll confirm the medical examiner's findings in person. My guess is they'll match."

"Good, let me know when you get back."

"Of course, Jethro," Ducky said. "And you know I'll take another look at this poor lad, triple check to make sure I got everything. Mr. Palmer has already brought Abigail what she needs to find out who did this. I'm certain young Anth…"

Gibbs didn't hear the rest. He didn't have or want to, not if it involved platitudes about Tony being okay. He was at the elevator in a heartbeat and on his way to Abby, with the hope that for once luck was on their side and she'd have answers as fast as Ducky had just provided. All he needed was a place to start, the barest of angles to explore. Not that Ducky's disturbing information about the wounds wasn't useful, it just wasn't a practical starting point. Gibbs' mind kept spinning it, and he still just couldn't reconcile why the officers were butchered, while Tony was apparently abducted. He supposed he should be grateful for that, but all he could think about were the unspeakable horrors Tony was probably experiencing in the hands of those bastards. Now that he knew their weapons of choice, it was even more difficult to keep those thoughts out of his head.

He paced the small confines of the elevator cab, replaying his first sight of the crime scene over and over. It came in flashes. Tony's car on scene, as expected. The cops, dead and bloody, the first thing he saw after he stepped out of his own car, as not so expected. Scanning for signs of Tony, finding none. Ordering Ziva and McGee to the back of the condo while he approached the front door with grim determination and a hell of a lot more terror than he'd ever admit out loud. All the blood. Spotting Tony's gun next to Bowman's body. The message scrawled on the wall, clearly an invitation; to whom and from whom was something he was driven to learn. Every flash made him re-scrutinize everything, hoping his mind's eye would catch something previously missed. He got a fat load of nothing.

As the elevator opened, Gibbs wished he had a Caf-Pow for his favorite gal. He hated showing up empty handed, particularly when he knew Tony's abduction was probably eating at Abs even more than it ate at him, at least by all outside appearances. Abby wore her heart on her sleeve, whether her crazy clothing choice of the day had sleeves or not. She was his polar opposite. It was probably why he held such fondness for her. Case now, he reminded himself, emotion later, and that was something he was going to have to drill into the remaining members of his team. Especially Abby. They had to focus on how to find Tony, not on what gruesome fate…shit, there he went again.

He stood in the doorway for a second and watched Abby at work. She was uncharacteristically quiet. She usually had music pumping throughout the lab, and she usually did a fair amount of talking to herself. Even her pigtails looked somehow less cheery than usual. Gibbs frowned. It wasn't a good sign when Abby acted serious. Hell, there had been worse situations and she'd still retained her effervescent, sometimes over the top charm. Now she was subdued in a way he hadn't seen since Kate's death. He wondered with a guilty pang if she'd been like this during his…extended vacation a few months back. It had taken her a while to truly forgive him for that.

"Abs," Gibbs said, staying in the doorway instead of barreling in as he usually would. "Got anything that'll give me a suspect?"

She didn't startle, which meant she knew he'd been standing there a while. He could usually catch her off guard, because she was too enrapt in her work to notice everything else around her.

"I've got too much, Gibbs, and yet not enough," she said, looking his way with a forlorn expression. "This crime scene was a mess."

"You don't have to tell me. No, actually, you do have to tell me."

Abby stomped over and dragged him all the way into her lab. The small touch of familiarity in their routine was comforting even in the direst of times. She didn't mess around, though. No jokes, no lengthy and tangential stories, and his comfort vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"Where do you want me to start? If you've already seen Ducky, and I know you have, you'll know the knife wasn't the weapon used. It was clean. I mean, really, really clean. Not a trace of blood on the blade or handle. Tony's prints were all over it, and a few smudges of another person's, but nothing I could use. Whoever it belongs to knows what he's doing. Or she. I suppose the bad guy could be a bad woman." Gibbs frowned at her. "Right, saving discussion on feminism as it pertains to villains, murderers and thieves for another time. Tony's prints were also all over the gun. Not his gun, the other gun, well, his gun, too but anyway I've got a possible set of prints on the weapon that wasn't Tony's, too. I'm running it now."

"I don't know anyone who walks around carrying a gun wiped free of prints, just in case they might run into trouble. So, basically, the long story short is most likely that Tony disarmed someone, but they got him anyway," Gibbs said. "That…doesn't sound like Tony."

It sounded bad, actually. Really unfortunately bad. DiNozzo might be a sixteen-year-old in a grown man's body, but he knew how to defend himself. Gibbs glanced down at the Desert Eagle. It was a beautiful piece, not something he'd just leave behind if he had a choice. Hell, he wouldn't have left the knife either, prints or no prints. It was too careless.

"Yeah, you'd think if Tony managed to disarm the guy, then he wouldn't have had a problem."

"Not if the perp's accomplices showed up and managed to surprise him. Ducky said there was more than one. They took out four cops, probably before they grabbed Tony."

"Good point," she said sadly. She looked at him for a second. "All I've got for you right now, really, is from the message they left."

Abby called up a picture of the bloody words to the big screen. Gibbs stared at them, not liking them any more now than he had at the scene.

"I can tell you it was written with different blood than the spatter, so it's a good bet it happened after Petty Officer Bowman had been dead for a while. It wasn't Tony's blood either."

"Whose blood was it – one of the cops?"

"No, and here's where it gets weird, Gibbs. The blood had at least two DNA markers that I've been able to isolate."

"So the killer used two other victims' blood. There were four cops killed."

"Yes. No." Abby frowned at him. "It's not so easy. The blood didn't come from anyone dead on scene – everyone there was in the system somewhere, cop, Navyman…Tony. They were all easily traceable. No matches."

"The perps used their own blood," he said.

"Tony's weapon was discharged once, but no, wrong again. It doesn't look like he hit anyone," Abby said. "That would make some strange sort of sense, and actually it would have been better, considering whose blood it actually is."

"Abs." So much for her taking the straight and narrow path. Gibbs smiled a little, glad Abby still enjoyed making him work for it, whether intentionally or not. It meant that despite her earlier subdued behavior she wasn't counting Tony out yet. "Stop making me guess and tell me to whom the blood belonged."

"Well, it is from two murder victims. Similar MOs to this one, but get this – one happened in Indiana three days ago and one in Iowa, four days ago." They were looking at serials. Shit, Fornell and the FBI would be all over Gibbs' ass any second now. They couldn't take this investigation from him, not with one of his own as the subject. That didn't mean they wouldn't try. "No message at those scenes, but the method of death is the same. The real kicker is the blood from the message here was fresh. See how it's smeared? I also don't think whoever wrote it had the blood stored and brought it along with them, which would have been bad enough."

"How else would it have gotten on the scene?"

"I don't really know," she said. "It's not like killers go around carting buckets of blood around with them everywhere they go, right? It had to be transferred somehow, I just haven't figured out how. I'm hoping to coordinate with the investigators from the other two murders to see if that gives us more information."

Gibbs scowled. Knowing the message wasn't there originally didn't help him figure out who the intended recipient of the message was. If anything, it just confused him more. There'd been no message initially with Bowman, then there had been a message left after the perps came back on scene and snatched Tony. That would mean the message was for them and this was a personal attack. The big problem with that was there was no way anyone would know which NCIS team would be on scene, and so then the message wasn't for them, specifically, at all. Gibbs frowned at the hastily scrawled words some more.

One down. Come get me. K.  
 **NCISPN**

Sam was going to kill him if someone else didn't before he had the chance.

Dean Winchester had lost feeling in his hands several hours ago, and all he could think was how that would prevent immediate action when Sam came for him. And he knew without a doubt that he was definitely going to want to take immediate action. He'd do it now if he could, actually, rip their heads off with his bare hands. He nudged the unconscious man next to him with his foot for the millionth time, and still got no reaction. He had a horrible feeling this fed was even more useless than most, and that wasn't saying much at all. It didn't mean he wanted the guy permanently damaged, though he feared it was too late for that. He'd lost sight during the scuffle, couldn't tell how long the little bloodsucker had latched onto the guy.

"Dude, come on. Wake the fuck up."

It was kind of anticlimactic, being dumped in a dingy room right away and just left there without a word or sign from…what was the vamp's name? Kate. Not a word from Kate or her cronies since then. Dean had expected his embarrassingly easy capture to be lorded over, or maybe some bloodletting. The capture wasn't wholly his fault, of course. It was easy to take down a shackled man. And while he appreciated the lack of both the lording and the bloodletting, the silence was killing him. He told himself the vampires were probably off sleeping, conserving their energy for some unpleasant nocturnal activities. He jostled the fed again.

"Whuuu?"

Now he was getting somewhere. He upped the jostle to a soft kick, and got a groan in response. He stared at the agent. He really hoped this DiNozzo guy wasn't too incapacitated. Or wouldn't become too incapacitated later, Dean thought uncomfortably. He might be a first class moron, but he looked reasonably well built and could come in handy when Sam broke him out of here. If it came to that. He'd rather get out himself.

"Yeah, that's it. Wake up."

"Where…?" DiNozzo said, and then opened his eyes a crack. "What…?"

Dean wriggled around, stuck his face right in front of DiNozzo's. The guy cringed and went all cross-eyed. He looked like shit. Dean truly felt bad about that but he needed whatever resources he could get his cuffed hands on, and he had to do it while the vamps were enjoying their siestas.

"Mornin', Sunshine," Dean said. "I don't know where we are. I do know the what part but I don't think you'll believe me until you see it for yourself. And maybe even after that you won't really believe."

"Who…?"

"I suppose you'll want the when, why and how too." Dean's nose started itching. Damnit. He leaned back against the wall and pretended his nose didn't itch. It didn't work. "Dude, I'm a little disappointed you don't recognize the guy you were – wrongfully, I might add – arresting. I've been told I have an unforgettable face. Maybe that's just with chicks."

"But who are you?"

"I told you before. My name's Dan McCafferty, not that it matters much."

DiNozzo sat up slowly, eyes kind of tracking left and right, like a kid who'd just spun around a hundred times and then suddenly stopped. If the blood loss hadn't produced that effect, the knock on the head would have. Dean winced in empathy. For a change he'd remained mostly injury free so far, which really didn't fit Kate and the surviving vampire gang's usual style. Actually, now that he thought about it, there had only been Kate and another female left after last time. So apparently their cross-country spree had been busy with more than murder; they'd also managed to start a new little clan. He grimaced. Turning someone was worse than killing them. DiNozzo stared at him blankly for a second or two.

"God, I feel like shit. I remember that woman called you something else, though," he said. Dean sighed. "Either she's lying or you are. Why the fake name?"

"Oh, you believe her? And I really resent your the insistence on interrogating me. It's pretty clear the only crime I committed was sneaking onto the scene. I'll admit to that, full confession."

"Look." DiNozzo awkwardly fished around until he gained his feet. Dean watched him take in the wrecked state of his expensive-looking suit, and couldn't help being amused at the dismay on the guy's face. Wearing that kind of crap in the field was just asking for it. "Look, I've had a hell of a day. I just want to know who I'm stuck with, and why. You seem like you might know the answers to both of those questions."

Mr. Fancypants really knew how to give attitude. Dean could appreciate that. Under normal circumstances, he'd give this guy a hard time right back. They really didn't have time to fuck around too much, though it wasn't a bad idea to give the guy enough flak that he didn't become distracted by the sheer crappiness of their predicament. Once DiNozzo figured out how shitty it really was…well, Dean would push him only enough to keep his mind off the bad. As much as he trusted Sam to find him and bust him free, he'd prefer to keep his brother far away from the vampires' nest. He couldn't reiterate that to himself enough. The only way he could do that was by breaking out himself, and the best time to do it was now, if the vamps really were sleeping.

"In my line of work, fake names come in handy. Most people misunderstand what I do. And we're here because of me, sort of," Dean said. Sometimes being mostly honest was the best policy. Like when imprisoned by a bunch of bloodsucking asshats. "Now I need you to tell me something."

"What?"

"Tell me you still have the keys to these cuffs, because I can't feel my hands. I told you I wanted hands in front."

DiNozzo looked down at him in disbelief, but he actually did check his pockets and came up empty. Dean should have figured. Nothing was going his way. Sam had been right, much as he ever hated admitting that, even when the evidence was as obvious as him being cuffed and held prisoner. It was bad enough to get busted by the authorities (again, a trend he did not like), but this was just embarrassing. He'd be lucky if Sam just killed him without going on with an "I told you so" speech or two first.

"Sorry," DiNozzo said. He seemed to mean it. "I mean that."

"Yeah, I'm sorry too."

DiNozzo did a circuit of the small cell. Dean had already done that, and hadn't found anything terribly useful. Of course, he was severely limited as far as his range of motion was concerned and had relied only on sight. The cell looked like it had been custom built, three sides constructed of narrow bars, the other the wall of a dingy, darkly lit room. There wasn't anything in the cell with them, and nothing in the greater expanses of the room except a big metal door with a slat opening and two very small windows that didn't let in much light. With his hands free, or cuffed in front of him, he might be able to do something. With them behind him, he wasn't sure why he'd suffered any illusion that he was getting out of there without Sam's help. It was a ludicrous idea.

"There's no way out." DiNozzo stopped walking, kind of sagged against the bars on the opposite side of the cell from where Dean was. The guy looked worse than he had moments ago, making Dean conclude the unconsciousness had been from blood loss more than head injury. "Except the door."

"Dude, are you all right? You should sit down, take it easy for a while."

"I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Blood loss, probably a concussion."

"Blood…how?"

"Ah, there's the how question," Dean said. DiNozzo took his advice, or his legs just gave out on him. He slumped to the floor. "One of them got you in the arm. You're actually lucky. Half an inch over and you would have bled out in a few minutes. Hell, maybe even seconds."

Yeah. Lucky, because now the guy was probably going to be slow breakfast for one or more of those things. Dean stared at DiNozzo for a second, whose eyes still held a fair amount of disbelief. Dean didn't know how much he should really share about their situation. A fed was a fed was a fed, and if they got out of this…when. When they got out of this, Dean would be a public enemy, not a fellow prisoner. DiNozzo looked down, spotted the huge bloody stain on his sleeve, apparently for the first time.

"Oh." He closed his eyes. "I think I might remember that happening. They shot me."

"Not exactly. Hey. Hey, DiNozzo, right?" DiNozzo nodded. "You shouldn't sleep. You were out for a long time before. Keep your eyes open."

"Tony." One eye cracked open.

"What?" Dean said.

"Special Agent Tony DiNozzo, Naval Criminal Investigative Service. But I figure if we're stuck here together you could at least call me Tony."

"Okay, thanks for the credentials, Tony."

Both eyes cracked open.

"And you are?"

Persistence is futile, Dean thought.

"His name is Dean Winchester." Shit. Dean jerked. Damned vampires could move without a sound when they wanted to, even this batch of white trash rejects. An uneasy feeling started to brew in his gut. Make that, the uneasy feeling in his gut increased. "I see you two are getting cozy. How nice."

Kate paced leisurely in front of the cell, far too close to Tony for Dean's liking. One quick hand through the bars and the guy would be in trouble. Tony apparently felt the same way. He scuttled around and sat next to Dean. Good. Maybe the guy wasn't such a moron after all. Kate kept her eyes on Dean, though, as she prowled back and forth. He wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of showing any emotion other than anger, kept his own gaze fixed and hard. She switched her attention to Tony, expression turning hungry in a way that had nothing to do with the guy's looks.

"Oh, we're comfortable," Dean said. "Nice place you've got here, a real step up from the barn. Less straw. Much higher class for pieces of garbage like you."

"Oooh, big talk for a man locked up and chained."

"Temporary setbacks. I'm going to rip your head off." Beside him, Tony made a gurgled choking sound. "With my bare hands."

"Can't do that when you're cuffed, sweetheart," Kate said. She held up her left hand. The key to the cuffs was in it. Dean was pretty sure he just twitched, giving away how much he wanted out of the damned bracelets. Of course, she already knew that. "Look what I have. I just can't decide if I should let you have a little comfort before you die or not. Frankly, I don't think you deserve it after what you and yours did to Luther. To all of them. My friends."

"Oh, sweetheart," Dean said, mimicking her word choice with a chuckle. "Luther got off easier than you're going to."

Kate growled lowly, then moved around to the side of the cell. She squatted down and ran her hands up and down the bars. It was a cliché to even think it, but Dean saw murder in her cold, dark eyes. He probably shouldn't have egged her on. Now she'd never let him free. It was better for him to be the focus, though, than for Tony to suffer. He was an innocent bystander, fed or not. At least NCIS was a military agency.

"You killed him, asshole. There's nothing easy about that."

Tony made another strange noise. Dean pretended not to hear.

"Your boyfriend was a killer, and he never should have laid hands on my brother." He kept his voice even and slow. "My dad had no choice in the matter, not that he would have done differently if he had."

Her nostrils flared. She stood up and strode for the door.

"Alex, Duane. Come in here."

Dean had to give her credit. She'd turned two of the biggest hulks he'd seen in a while, and that was no small feat. Vamps had extra strength and the benefit of being already dead and therefore impervious to lasting injury, but still, it was impressive. In a totally sick kind of way. Hulk number one opened the cell door. The other went in and pulled Tony into a headlock before the guy could do more than issue half a shout. Biting teeth emerged, and bared right next to Tony's exposed jugular.

"You move and he dies," Kate said, as she too entered the cell. She drew close to him, moving slowly. She put her hands on him in mock seduction, leaning to reach his cuffed hands. He could feel her hot breath on his neck, and then she skimmed her teeth against him. He stiffened, pulled his head back as far as he could. "At first I thought maybe I should turn you. Then I thought maybe I should just kill you."

"Do it then, bitch. Kill me."

With her free hand she squeezed his jaw tightly, pulled his face so he couldn't look anywhere but at her. He heard Tony hiss and struggle a little.

"I was disappointed your brother wasn't with you before, but I've decided this is better. I saw how easily little Sammy went down last time. I know he'll be easy now. I've been watching. Learning. And I've heard the most interesting things about him lately. People talk. I've decided he'd be much more useful to have around than you would be. I will have him."

No. No, no, not ever going to happen. Dean tugged his face free at the same time Kate released the cuffs. She smiled at him coyly, self-satisfied. She laughed in his face, stood up and retreated quickly. Dean's arms were leaden, but blood pumped back into them and was already causing him a lot of pain. The vamp holding Tony let him go reluctantly when Kate beckoned.

"Oh, it's going to be so fun watching him bleed you."

"I'll kill you first," Dean said. "You don't touch him."

He struggled to get to his feet, still encumbered by his arms. He felt Tony try to tug him up more than he saw him, but he shook out of the man's grasp. Kate laughed some more, and left the room. Dean made it to the locked cell door as the door to the room clicked shut.

"You won't touch my brother!" He pounded an already throbbing fist against the bars. "You hear me? You won't touch him."

He stared at the closed door, fury making his blood pump even faster. The sick, uncontrollable twirling in his stomach increased even more, and if he'd had any food he probably would have puked. He was bait. He was fucking bait for his brother, and Sammy would take it just like Dean knew he would himself if the situation were reversed.

"What was that all about? Did you really kill her boyfriend?"

Dean looked over at his cellmate. He realized there couldn't be any half-truths. The bad shit was just beginning; he couldn't imagine Kate was just going to let them sit there while she waited for Sam to show. He and Tony were her playthings locked up in her own twisted version of a dollhouse. Just because she didn't intend on killing Dean (yet) didn't mean that fate wasn't in store for Tony. Goddamnit. DiNozzo deserved some kind of warning. Hell, the guy probably didn't even deserve to be locked up like a fucking animal. They needed out of there. He needed to keep Sam as far away from there as possible, after he killed Kate. She'd made a huge mistake letting his hands free. His mind raced.

"It's kind of a long story," he said.

"I think you should tell it to me," Tony said quietly.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam chewed on his lower lip. It had taken him longer than he thought it would to get into NCIS' system, and had also taken a reluctant call to Ash for help. What he'd discovered once their joint effort had got him inside was actually worse than his earlier fears: NCIS didn't have Dean in custody. He scanned through the case file, looking for anything the agents on the case might have figured out that he could use. He hoped they had next to nothing that they'd consider valuable, but that didn't mean the information wouldn't be of some use to him. It also wouldn't hurt to know whom he was dealing with, and how much of what they had he had to make disappear.

He read quickly. The crime scene played out very much like the others. Pictures of the body told the story. It was definitely vampires, not that he'd really needed that confirmation. He stared at the picture of the mutilated body and grimaced, closed the picture and moved deeper into the file. Nothing about this fit what little he knew about a vampire's MO. Lenore had said they were few in number, and her sect seemed atypical. If there were more of them out there, they were more likely to be evil than not. Either way, bringing attention to themselves was counterintuitive to their survival. He frowned. Hell, the fact that they were in a highly populated area was so off their track that he felt out of his element as well.

He straightened up. Sam couldn't afford hesitation, hemming or hawing. _Dean_ couldn't afford his hesitation. Ash had also warned him that he also couldn't be in the system for long, had to get out before someone figured out he was piggybacked onto it. He had to focus.

But no matter how many other pictures Sam saw in the files, his brain kept flashing back to the picture of Petty Officer Bowman's dead body, and how right now Dean could be dying just like that. He shook his head as if to loosen the image he'd concocted there. One by one, though, he flicked through the crime scene photos, looking more carefully for anything at all that might help him, looking for signs that Dean was okay. He got nothing. Photos were too flat. He needed to see things for himself. He couldn't rely on NCIS to do the footwork, and he couldn't rely on their reports. Everything was too distilled. Neat and clean and grammatically correct, and most of it wasn't coming from the right perspective. He kept going through the file anyway, because he didn't really know what else to do at this moment in time. He landed on a picture that was a slight change from the previous killings. Bloody words, a message that he knew was meant for him, filled the screen.

 _One down. Come get me. K._

One down. Sam stared at the words, heart racing. That did _not_ mean Dean was dead. It couldn't. He couldn't let himself think about that. One down, one down. Shit. No, there would be no reason to goad him into hunting if Dean were already dead. He clicked off the picture. He _was_ right. His memory of the night Dad had killed the vampire in Colorado with the Colt was hazy, especially the few minutes after it happened. He'd been too busy trying to get oxygen into his deprived lungs to pay much attention. He remembered snippets. Blood splatter on his face. Dean holding him up. The way the female vampire had lunged for them, her cold rage filling the night. The way she screamed in emotional agony he hadn't thought possible for an undead creature. The other surviving vampire calling her name and pulling her away. K stood for Kate, and, god, she was pissed at them and she had Dean. Sam closed his eyes for a second.

He wouldn't do Dean any good wallowing in fear, he reminded himself. Sam refocused quickly, weeding through the rest of the photos, and then the medical examiner's reports. Kate had clearly issued him a challenge, wanted him to find her, but she hadn't left anything to work with. And if she had it wasn't as though he was about to go running into a vampire's nest recklessly despite his need to get Dean out fast, and Kate had to know that. The playing field here was more even than usual hunts; she'd seen them work before. She couldn't know much about them, but revenge had obviously been on her mind for a long time. A terrible thought occurred to him. For all he knew, she'd been watching them for a while.

Which meant she might actually have more advantages than he was comfortable with. Plus Sam now had the added bonus of thwarting the feds vying for his attention. He couldn't conduct himself the same way, knowing he'd be working the same scenes and information as NCIS. Kate hadn't seemed smart enough to plan that distraction by killing a sailor intentionally, though she did have motivation and a great deal of anger on her side. He really couldn't discount anything at the moment, and…

Ah, crap.

Sam stopped, leaned close to read the screen more closely. She had someone else, an NCIS agent. No wonder the people on scene had seemed so upset. Poor bastard. Sam read quickly. Blood from agent, DiNozzo, blood from victim. Additional blood from two previous victims, crimes committed in other states. They'd connected those deaths with Petty Officer Bowman's. Dean's weapons were logged in; no blood on them and no blood matching Dean anywhere, no mention of his presence there. Good. Maybe it would take the FBI a little while to figure him and Dean for this. Right. They had shitty luck with the law, and there was no way he could count on that changing just because it would be convenient for him. He might have to deal with both NCIS and FBI soon, which was something he really wanted to avoid.

"Focus, Sam, focus," he said. Dean would make fun of him for talking to himself and, shit, it had been less than a day and he really missed his brother.

Sam had one more thing to do before he disconnected. He searched until he found an NCIS badge in a photo, took what he needed. Their medical examiner would have some blood he could 'borrow.' After all, he was just one person against an unknown number of vampires and he needed every edge he could get. There were other less risky options to getting blood from a dead person, but the lure of a firsthand look at the evidence while he carried out his primary task was too strong. It would also give him the opportunity to learn more about the agent in charge, though all he _really_ needed to know about Leroy Jethro Gibbs was that he was ex-Marine, and that his team was probably as sharp as he was. A former Israeli Moussad agent and an MIT grad. Great.

If Sam chewed his lip any harder, he'd gnaw a hole right through it. He studied the layout of the building quickly, not confident enough that he could download the specs to his laptop. He noted the security system and the locations of the autopsy room and the forensics lab in relation to the bullpen office area Gibbs and his team occupied. The handgun would be in the lab, and it was one of Dean's favorites. He might take the chance at getting it back, and maybe the hunting knife as well. In for a penny, after all. He just needed a way in. He wasn't crazy enough to parade around impersonating an agent while they all were hot on a rescue operation of their own. The more invisible he could get, the better. A maintenance guy? File clerk.

He erased all evidence he'd been on NCIS' network (at least he hoped) and started his real work. Now that he knew for certain vampires had Dean, that this was a personal attack, he could also do what he and Dean should have done before – scope out the potential nesting sites that he had researched while he'd stupidly let Dean fumble around an active crime scene alone. He had too many damned things to do, and Sam's gut told him he didn't have a lot of time to do any of it. From this point on, everything had to go his way. Everything.

* * *

His level of frustration with this case was immense. Gibbs told himself that he'd feel the same regardless of whom the missing person was. He was a liar. The truth was that every goddamned second that went by meant one less second Tony had to live, and every second Tony lost was one they _all_ lost. They'd wasted too much time crossing leads off their list, and getting no new ones to make up for them. So he found himself once again pacing the elevator. So far, the only thing that had gone right was that Jenn…Director Shepard had managed to put off the FBI for the next 24 hours, and had done it without him having to talk to Fornell at all. He didn't know how she'd done it, and he didn't care. He glanced at his watch. Make that 18 FBI-free hours now.

Gibbs knew he couldn't make things happen through sheer force of will, but he was tired of looking at his team's faces grow more and more somber. Their chatter, bouncing ideas back and forth, had mostly ceased, and now Ziva and McGee trailed silently after him. Part of it was probably some of the same grim determination he felt. The other part of it, though, was more worrisome – evidence that they were close to being lost, close to believing Tony was gone forever. He slid out of the elevator before the doors had opened all the way.

He knew they couldn't take all of the remaining 18 hours to find DiNozzo. They were actually racing two clocks at once, counting down Tony's life and against the FBI. Gibbs was so intent on making it to his desk to keep on racing those clocks that he didn't see someone almost directly in his path. He collided with an extremely tall, lanky man hard enough that he made the papers the guy had in his hands fly all over the floor.

"Sorry," he said brusquely, stepping back.

"Don't worry. It's okay, I've got it," the guy mumbled, awkwardly turning away from him and ducking down to retrieve the documents. "It happens all the time, really."

He paused for a minute, watched the guy wave off Ziva and McGee's offers of help as well. Something pinged inside him, though he couldn't be sure what or why. Something about the way the guy moved, and Gibbs had never seen the man in the building before. Which meant nothing. There were probably lots of people he'd never seen before. He shook his head. He was getting paranoid. He saw the guy finally collect all his papers and rush around a corner. His head was visible even over the tall wall. Gibbs smirked. It was probably a new agent who'd heard scuttlebutt about him and was as nervous as Palmer. That would certainly explain the furtive, nervous behavior. It was nice to see his reputation was still solid. He continued on his way.

"Jethro, there you are," Ducky said, standing near his desk with a somewhat befuddled expression. "I expected you'd be here waiting, since you cal…"

"What've you got for us, Ducky?" he said, brushing past Ducky to get to his desk. "Tell me good news."

"Well, I do have news, but I don't know whether you'll find it good or not." Ducky quirked an eyebrow at him, which made him appear even more elvish than usual. Gibbs clenched his jaw. He'd already heard that "news, not good news" thing too often in the past few hours as well. "I have reason to believe Petty Officer Bowman was not killed in his home."

"But the blood spatter…" McGee started to say, before Ducky cut him off.

"Was staged very adeptly." Ducky looked toward him. Gibbs hadn't sat down yet, and now felt disinclined. "Time of death indicates Petty Officer Bowman expired somewhere around two thirty in the AM."

"But the blood, both his and not his, was still dripping when we got there," Gibbs said.

"Yes, which means it could not have been there at the time of his death. Some bruising that must have occurred just prior to his death has now also presented on his wrists. It seems very likely that his last few moments were spent trying to break free."

"And he wasn't bound on the scene," McGee said, the one to fill in where Ducky left off this time.

Shit.

"Whoever moved him did an excellent job of making it appear as though his home was the location of the crime."

"It does not make sense," Ziva said matter-of-factly. "None of it. Someone left a bloody trail across the United States, seemingly with no real forethought, but now they're playing games. Leaving open invitations for us to find them."

"Not us, Ziva," Gibbs said.

"Then who?"

That was the $64,000 question.

"Does it really matter? They might want someone else to find them, but _we're_ going to."

Even if he had no idea how. Gibbs found himself pacing again. It was the only action he seemed able to take lately, useless motion that never led anywhere. Ziva, McGee and Ducky kept talking. He tuned them out. They were missing the huge chunks of information they needed to actually move forward, to break him and the case from the pacing pattern. Things usually came together much more smoothly than this and it was killing him to spin his wheels when so much was personally at stake. He clenched his jaw. He couldn't let it _be_ personal, he reminded himself.

"I also have tried to understand a bit more about the unusual bite marks, Jethro," Ducky said. "As far as I can determine, there really were two sets of teeth on each bite."

"Wait, are you saying both sets were real?"

"It's difficult to say, of course, Mr. McGee, without the actual teeth."

"Is it even physically possible to have two sets of natural teeth? They don't call the first set baby teeth for nothing."

"At best, supernumerary teeth are highly abnormal. There could be a variety of causes for such a condition – hyperactivity of the dental lamina, heredity. I certainly have never read about a case where one set hasn't been removed immediately after they're discovered. I don't know how one would function with two sets."

"So it's a rare condition, and yet we have two occurrences right here."

"Three," Ducky said. "I confirmed the third bite on poor Bowman came from yet another person."

"Three occurrences in the same set of homicides," Gibbs said. "That doesn't seem likely."

"Presumably three cases, and it might not seem likely, but evidence is proving that an incorrect assumption. I believe Abigail is still compiling information from all other cases, as best she can."

Gibbs' head started to hurt. This was exactly what kept cropping up – inexplicable, nonsensical evidence. He almost didn't want to go see Abby, for fear she'd just throw another wrench into the works. The teeth thing had to be explained away as fakes, because the chances of three genetic anomalies ganging up on Bowman and the other victims were astronomical. Impossible.

"We're going to assume the killers donned sets of fake teeth to prevent ID by dental records."

"Yes, unfortunately, I was unable to obtain a clear imprint of either set of teeth, on any of the bites."

"It still doesn't make sense that they went from careless as they raced across the country to obviously intelligent and methodical now," Ziva said again, insistently. "Why start trying to hide the trail they'd created intentionally?"

"Name me one thing about this case that has made sense," Gibbs said. He pointed to the tiny screen linking them to the morgue and to Abby's lab. "McGee, can you get Abby on that gizmo?"

"You got it, Boss."

Within seconds, he heard Abby's voice. Gibbs moved over to McGee's desk, they all did. At first glance, Abby looked discouraged. At second glance, she looked depressed. Not good. He had to make time to refresh her Caf-Pow again, a gesture he hoped would help cheer her, at least a little.

"I need an update, Abs."

"Do we have to do it this way, Gibbs? I'd rather talk to you in person," she said, giving him a pleading look. She probably felt isolated, and knowing her, the solitude was allowing her to dwell on what might be happening to Tony. "It might be easier to show you."

"Be down in a minute," he said. He started for the elevator, Ziva, McGee and now Ducky all trailing after him quietly. He saw someone enter the cab, the doors slide shut. "Hold the elevator."

He jogged to catch it, but the person inside must not have heard his call. Gibbs thought he saw the same man he'd run into before, ducking his head and pushing a button. If he didn't know any better, he'd say the guy was trying to prevent them from boarding with him. Jackass. Gibbs jabbed at the down button, irritated. He supposed he could chalk it up to Murphy's Law, but the elevator seemed to take forever. It must have stopped on every floor on the way down, and then again on the way back up. Everyone in the whole damn building had apparently decided to use the stupid thing at the same time. He was about to say screw it and take the stairs when the elevator finally arrived.

He half listened as his three companions continued to talk about the strange teeth phenomena. Teeth weren't going to help them find DiNozzo; Ducky had made that clear. Gibbs led the way into Abby's lab.

"It took you guys long enough. Come in," she said. "I ran a mass spec on the saliva sample Ducky gave me, got no hits right away. I had to do more digging, pulled some strings, worked my magic."

"And?"

"And got a match to a recently reopened FBI cold case. Quite a coincidence, huh? It turns out that a 35-year-old woman named Katherine Williamson disappeared from her home in Amarillo, Texas back in 1962, was presumed and eventually declared dead. There was blood at the scene, but absolutely no solid leads. Family and friends were all cleared. As luck would have it, DNA from the evidence, both from the woman and whoever took her, was still viable. Someone must have thought they had cause for reopening the file."

"What does this have to do with Petty Officer Bowman, Abs?"

"I'm almost one hundred percent certain at least one of the people who chewed on Petty Officer Bowman was this Katherine Williamson."

Abby cued up a picture of a dark haired woman, vivacious and smiling. Gibbs did the math in his head, could practically hear everyone else do the same. No. No way someone from the geriatric set could do this, let alone one missing and presumed dead for the past 45 years. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Abby," McGee said softly, "If she were still alive, she'd be 80 now. That's not possible. I can't see Tony being taken out by a…grandma."

"I know," Abby said. Gibbs stared at her. She shrugged. "And yet that's what the evidence says. I can only tell you what I know. You guys have to fill in the very weird blanks."

Lucky them.

"Although I _do_ have a thought about the motivation behind this style of killing." She looked at Gibbs. "I dated this guy once who had a biting fetish, which was cool, you know I'm open about stuff, but it got to the point where even I was uncomfortable."

Speaking of uncomfortable. Gibbs caught both Ziva and McGee squirm from Abby's unique brand of too much information. He bit back a small smile.

"Anyway, I asked him one day if he thought he was trying to be Dracula. Yeah, I walked right into that one. Turned out his biting fetish was actually a _vampire_ fetish, and I won't even try to tell you how much weirder it got after that. The things that guy had in his closet would give you nightmares. But you know what they say, where one person has a fixation, there have to be more just like him. I'm all for exploring the dark side of humanity, but letting him actually draw blood was pushing it. I was out the door as soon as I heard that one. I don't even like it when my doctor has to draw blood for routine tests."

Abby finished up her longwinded supposition, and left her studio audience uncertain whether to applaud or run away. Gibbs would have been amused at the reactions except, removing Abby's personal tale from it, it wasn't particularly funny.

"You're seriously suggesting we look for an 80-year-old vampire wannabe, Abby?" Gibbs said. "That's…a stretch."

"Maybe the 80-year-old doesn't do any of the heavy lifting," she said. "She's the queen vampire. Wannabe. Whatever. Maybe she's got a crew of hot young crazy people doing her bidding."

Gibbs thought the idea of an 80-year-old at the head of a vampire cult was ridiculous, though at the core her suggestion wasn't implausible. Most of the blood drained, human bite marks…they really could be dealing with some strange cult organization.

"But Abby, vampires are supposed to stay young. They've got that eternal life thing going on. She couldn't get followers if she looks like an 80-year-old."

"Not everyone is closed-minded when it comes to age, McGee."

"Hey, I'm not…"

Gibbs' cell rang, sparing him the rest of that awkward conversation. It usually gave him perverse pleasure to watch Abby cut McGee off at the knees, and part of him was glad they could still manage to find that spirit in them when he knew both of them were worried as hell. He noted who the caller was before lifting the phone to his ear.

"Jenny," he said.

 _"Gibbs, there's been another murder,"_ Director Jenny Shepard said grimly, with no lead-in. " _Civilians on scene grabbed the victim's wallet. Jethro…"_

Ah, _**fuck**_.

 _"The police found an NCIS badge. I'm so sorry. I…it's DiNozzo."_

They were too goddamned late.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

"So," Tony said. He stared at his cellmate warily, and all he could think about was how screwed up it was that of all the ways he thought he might die he was actually going to kick it while locked up by a bunch of rednecks, and with a crazy man (homicidal, apparently; delusional, definitely) at that. "Let me get this straight. You and your brother travel around the US hunting all sorts of evil make-believe things. That woman is actually one evil, evil vampire, and so was her boyfriend, who your now dead dad killed last year. Now she wants revenge, so she grabbed you and even though she's got you she hasn't laid a hand on you for some strange reason."

"Yeah, that about sums it up."

Tony laughed weakly, and tipped his head back against the wall and banged it a couple of times gently. If he got out of this, he had to write a screenplay. This stuff was priceless, really, might even revive the true horror genre of old. None of that _Saw, Scream_ or _Hostel_ bullshit they put out these days. Good, old-fashioned vampires. Redneck vampires – he could set it in Appalachia or something. _Deliverance_ with an even more horrifying twist. He should ask the guy to sign a release form. McGee would totally give him writing tips.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Dean Winchester, but I think you're a little bit nuts."

 _Or, y'know, a lot nuts_ , he thought.

"I can't tell you how many times I've heard that before. I didn't figure you'd believe me, but I had to try," Dean said, shrugging. Tony swore he heard the guy mutter fed and idiot in way too close proximity to each other. "Do me a favor. Look at your gunshot wound more closely."

"Damn, is it bleeding again?"

Winchester rolled his eyes. Throughout the whole insane tale, there had been a tone in Dean's voice Tony couldn't quite dismiss. Crock of shit or not, Dean believed what he was saying. That just made Tony feel worse, though; the guy needed more help than a simple rescue could give. Intent, somehow not-crazy eyes bore into him, so he started sliding off his ruined Armani jacket, said a silent eulogy for it and the equally damaged Hugo Boss shirt underneath it. He took off his silk tie. It was still in remarkably good shape. Salvageable, at least. He could feel Dean's gaze still on him as he unbuttoned and wriggled his shirt down. What the…?

"What the hell?" he said.

"No one shot you."

"Is that…I think those are teeth marks."

"Yeah, they are," Dean said tiredly, like he was talking to a child. "You might want to wrap your arm up with something. This place isn't exactly sanitary."

"One of those assholes actually _bit_ me."

"Much like a vampire would."

"I could get rabies or something," Tony said, ignoring the vampire remark.

"Believe it or not, Old Yeller, that would actually be a positive outcome to this."

Dean stood up and paced in front of him. Since the woman had uncuffed him, _Kate_ , Tony reminded himself with an internal grimace, Dean had stretched his arms out over and over, like a batter about to step up to the plate. Couldn't blame him. Hours spent with hands restricted couldn't have been pleasant. Tony stared back down at the bloody gash on his own arm. There wasn't that much blood, but he felt weak and had a headache that didn't feel like it was just from being knocked out. He'd expected some clarity after hearing what Dean had to tell, but he was so not clear. Vampires were not real, yet someone had bitten him. He had a wound that should have made his sleeve drenched in blood, yet there were only reddish brown stains around the tear. He was dizzy and achey, much like he'd be if he had lost blood. He sighed.

"I just thought…" Dean stopped, looked at him again. "Things are going to get bad. It would really be in our best interest to get out of here sooner rather than later, and I figured you knowing the whole score would help."

"It would be in your brother's best interest, too," he said. Dean stared at him with surprise. Behind that emotion, Tony also saw worry. "Hey, I'm not saying I buy your story, but I believe you and _they_ believe they're vampires and that's freaky enough for me. That…Kate person mentioned your brother, so I'm assuming she really does want him for something."

"For something," Dean repeated quietly. "Everybody wants something with…"

Dean stopped talking, ran a hand down his face. The story might have been completely fictional, a work of delusions, but the emotion Dean revealed was real. Tony doubted the guy knew he was such an open book. Dean crouched down, and up close the worry was even more palpable, and that he was so obviously connected to his brother gave Tony some odd kind of comfort. Then again, cold-blooded killers and mentally unstable people might have the same kind of concern for their loved ones as well.

"I was serious about bandaging that up. It's going to be hard enough breaking out of here with your ass tagging along, but if that gets infected it'll be even worse. I can do it if you want. I've had lots of practice with that kind of thing."

Tony nodded mutely and let Dean create a makeshift bandage. He barely even winced when his shirtsleeve was ripped off; after all, it was already a lost cause. He did balk when Winchester went for his tie, cringed when the guy shrugged and jammed it into the pocket of his leather jacket.

For several minutes, they didn't talk. To tell the truth, Tony needed more time to process and Dean seemed to get that. Dean improvised the bandage as efficiently as he'd indicated he could, with the skill of a trained field medic. Tony didn't think the guy was military and yet somehow reminded him of Gibbs, in a totally intangible and unlikely way. The sharp, always alert eyes, the relaxed but not relaxed manner in which he held himself…or maybe he was just projecting, because it would be nice to have Gibbs and McGee and Ziva break through that door and get him out before the something worse Dean thought was going to happen, happened.

Tony replayed the day's events in his head, and even though the whole vampire thing was still nuts, the rest of Dean's explanation seemed to fit what little he knew about their captors. Maybe Winchester's father _was_ a killer and the only way he could cope with that horrible truth was to pretend myths and urban legends were real. It was kind of sad, in a way. He watched Dean do what he had already done, make a circuit around the cell.

"You already know there's no way out," he said, trying to sound relaxed and not like a jerk. It didn't work. "You said so yourself."

"At the time you looked about ready to fall on your face. I just wanted you to sit down." Dean sort of smiled, then kept on with his search. "Besides, there's always a way out."

The guy hadn't so much as flinched when Tony had been taking him into custody, but here and now he prowled like a tiger. Tony didn't know what the hell was really going on (and frankly didn't care much about the actual details); he was convinced that while Dean was nuttier than his Aunt Mabel's carrot cake, his concern was still enough reason for Tony to have his own. It didn't take a genius to note behavioral changes, and he'd always been decent at reading people. Underneath the exterior hard shell, Dean Winchester was nervous, and about more than just being locked up in a cage.

"I'm sure my team's ready to bust through that door any minute now."

"Yeah, well, no offense but I'm not going to hold my breath waiting for that."

Tony didn't point out it was a hell of a lot more likely that NCIS would find and release them than it was for a lone (he wanted to say younger) brother to do it. He also didn't point out the bars on the cage were solid, the door was locked with thick chains and padlock and the vam…people had taken everything from them but their clothes. He knew Dean knew all of that, and had probably known it a minute after they'd been tossed in there. The guy had tenacity that he had to admire. Hell, if he had the energy, he'd probably be right there looking for that futile way out himself. Again.

"Why do you suppose she took the cuffs off you?" Tony said. "The way I see it, they had even more of an advantage with you incapacitated."

"Maybe she's not into bondage." Dean banged a fist against the bars. "Actually, she kind of is."

"You'd also think that if she's got a bone to pick with you she wouldn't just let you sit here. She looked the type who might enjoy bringing others pain."

"Aren't you just Mr. Happy Happy Sunshine?"

"I wonder where they are right now," Tony said, ignoring Dean's frustrated mutterings. "The two guys she's with are pretty big and ugly."

"For your sake, I hope they're not hungry too."

Again with the vampire talk. Wait, hungry could mean…actually, he hoped it was vampire talk. Tony closed his eyes, leaned his head against the wall again. He was tired, but kept in mind the blow to the head and the bout of unconsciousness he'd experienced. Dean kept moving around, ever searching. It was Gibbs all over again. He couldn't wait to tell his boss he'd met a not so mini him. His thoughts wandered to the rest of the team. He thought about Abby doing her brainiac forensics thing, how it really had to be only a matter of time before they all figured it out. He couldn't remember more than bits and pieces, but he was pretty sure being careful didn't register as a concern with these deviants.

"Hey, don't go to sleep on me now."

"Not sleeping, just conserving energy," Tony said. He opened his eyes a crack. "So what happens if they do get your brother? They'll kill you for sure, probably me too."

"Doesn't matter." Dean stood above him, looking menacing and vulnerable at the same time. "It isn't going to happen. Sam's good."

"Yeah, well, no offense but I'm not going to hold my breath waiting for him to come get us out."

"You don't kno…"

The sound of the door opening halted Dean's retort. Tony knew he shouldn't have thrown that back at the guy. The brother seemed a bit of a hot button issue, and they were on the same side for the time being. Bickering wouldn't help either of them. Prisoners needed solidarity. Tony had a very bad feeling as he watched Kate slink into the room, eyes predatory and cold. She could very well pass for a fox plotting to get into the coop, interested in devouring whatever she could, and damned if he suddenly wasn't chicken. He glanced down at his bandaged arm. It was crazy, but he thought that if they actually were vampires, then the smell of dried blood was probably making them thirsty. He glanced down at his arm.

"Hello, boys. Didn't think I'd leave you alone for long, did you?" she said. Neither he nor Dean replied. Kate shrugged indifferently. She looked back toward the door, calling, "It's time for some fun."

Oh, crap. It was apparently an invitation. The two hulks from before, Alex and Duane, lumbered into the room, as well as another woman. Tony scrabbled to his feet. Dean stiffened, prepping for a fight they couldn't possibly win. Hell, he doubted they'd even have a shot at making it to the door. Tony wasn't a defeatist, but he still felt a little shaky; he wasn't going to be much help. He watched Dean carefully, perfectly willing to take direction from the guy. He was starting to think maybe Winchester wasn't crazy.

"It was a mistake to uncuff me," Dean growled. "I'm going to kill you."

"Maybe it was, but I doubt you'll kill me. Heather, the door."

The other woman, slightly more petite than Kate, stepped forward and unlocked the door. Tony tightened his muscles, ready to make a break for it. Dean took a step, and then it was like the Bowman crime scene all over again. Three of their captors moved so fast Tony could barely register they had before one of the guys had him in a firm grip. He struggled to get out of the hold, to no avail. He felt hot, moist breath on his neck.

"Anh, Alex, not yet," Kate said. "We need him to keep Dean in line."

"Aww," Alex said in his ear. "His blood's pumping so fast."

"Soon, I promise."

Tony managed to look over at Dean, who was similarly held but was fighting hard, lunging in his direction. That was when he saw it. The other woman, Heather, moved in on Dean, pressing her body against his. God, she looked ready to molest him right there. She _was_ molesting him in some perverse seduction routine. Tony noticed there was something wrong with her face. Her leering smile was…sharp. She lashed out and smacked Dean across the cheekbone, hard enough to draw blood. _She must have rings on_ , Tony thought randomly. Then it got worse, because then she writhed close to him and licked the wound clean. Dean clenched his jaw, and his right eye twitched.

"I'm really not in the mood, honey," Dean said.

Another backhand, more blood. More licking. Tony didn't want to see any of the sick performance, but he couldn't look away.

"Oh, god," Tony moaned. Now he was sure Winchester wasn't insane, but he wasn't certain he wasn't a bit touched himself. "What the fuck is this?"

Dean made eye contact with him, and Tony saw so many things in his eyes. Anger, regret, desperation. And then Kate stepped between him and Dean, blocking his view. He blinked, saw the silver glint of a knife. Saw her smile was sharp, too.

"This is a pre-dinner snack," she said. She flicked the knife at him, and he couldn't move enough to avoid being sliced across the chest. Tony gasped. Kate ripped at his shirt open. "Just relax. It doesn't have to hurt. Much."

"Leave him alone, Kate, it's me you want. He doesn't have anything to do with this," Dean said, menace making his voice deep and commanding. Tony heard the slap of flesh against flesh again and then again, heard Dean groan. "Damnit."

Kate ignored Dean completely. She leaned toward him, eyes intent on the bleeding cut on his chest. He felt her tongue swirl around it, and then she latched on and sucked. He closed his eyes, as if that could help him be somewhere other than there. The sensation of her suckling at his chest was painful, yet strangely erotic and he felt warmth flood him. Tony bucked weakly, and could not think of one single time in his life when he had been so frightened. She released him, finally, pulled back. He recoiled at the sight of his own blood on her lips.

"Now, Kate?" Alex said. "Please?"

"I need a word with Dean first," she said, giving Tony a lecherous look. "Heather."

And then Heather was in front of him. He could see Dean over the top of his new tormentor's head, and it didn't look good. He forgot about his own condition for a minute. Blood oozed from various places on Dean, small wounds but enough to make the guy appear shocky. Kate leaned and whispered something to Dean that got him moving again, but he'd been beaten enough that his fighting was ineffective. Duane pulled Dean's head back. Tony watched with horror as the guy… _monster_ …grew sharp teeth just like the women and sank them into Dean's shoulder, sucked long enough for Dean to go slightly limp.

"Bring that one," Kate said, pointing to him.

"No," Dean said weakly. Duane released him, and he fell to the floor. "Don't. Don't."

Tony was dragged out of the cell. The last thing he saw was Dean trying to crawl uncoordinatedly to the door before it closed.

* * *

"As soon as I pulled the this and saw the badge, I cleared the scene," the ME said without preamble. She handed Gibbs a plastic-bagged wallet, and gave him a sympathetic grimace. "I knew you guys would want to take over. He didn't have anything else on him, and the wallet's been cleaned out. This was one hell of a messy mugging."

Gibbs gave a cursory look at the badge and ID, like he expected a mistake to have occurred, that it wasn't Tony's. There was no such luck. Tony's picture stared back at him, his face wearing that devil-may-care smile he always thought was so charming. It must have been; ID shots were supposed to be unsmiling. He handed the bag off to McGee, who looked like a lost puppy as he stared at it. Gibbs steeled himself and moved forward. He knew he had to be strong, not show how much this impacted him. He knew if he kept it up his team would as well, and he wasn't ready to deal with their grief and anger on top of his own. He swore he'd track these bastards down and make sure they all got what they deserved.

The body was prone, but Gibbs recognized the suit as something Tony would definitely have in his closet, though one of the sleeves had been ripped off. To him, a suit wasn't hard proof. It couldn't be, no matter how it looked. Behind him, McGee choked a little and Gibbs scrabbled to retain his hope that this was all a mistake. It was like Kate all over again, the same horrible cold feeling set up house in his gut, that he'd failed to keep his people safe from harm. That he'd somehow failed to teach them all they needed to know to survive in this job, or in this world. It was ridiculous, because Kate and Tony had both known, had been excellent agents. He caught himself thinking of Tony in the past tense, clenched his jaw. He squatted down next to the body. The hair was the same. The suit, the hair, god, it really was DiNozzo.

"Damnit, Tony," he whispered, too soft for anyone to hear. The person his words were directed to was beyond hearing anyway. He wiped a hand across his mouth. "I didn't want it to be this way for you."

"Boss?"

He stood up and glanced at his team, what was left of it. McGee had his eyes pinned on the body, and Ziva looked distant. Her nostrils flared slightly, and he knew she was as angry as he was. He glanced beyond them, saw the police milling around at the end of the alley and doing crowd control. They weren't anywhere near the middle class neighborhood where Bowman lived; this was probably the morning entertainment for these people. At least they weren't peeking through window curtains like they probably had at Bowman's.

"McGee, you're on photography. Ziva, start processing the alley. Make sure you bag everything."

"Do you think…is that really Tony?" Ziva said, sounding not nearly as distant as she looked. If he didn't know any better, he'd say she sounded as distressed as she did angry. _There might be a human being in there somewhere after all,_ Gibbs thought. "I think I recognize his shoes."

"Looks like it, but you know we can't move the body until Ducky and Palmer are through."

Truthfully, he himself clung to hope that it wasn't Tony, as illogical as that was. He wasn't ready to admit it might be. That it _was_ Tony who lay there dead and bloody McGee and Ziva moved around him robotically, on autopilot. They were trying hard to distance themselves the same way he did. Little did they know. Frankly, none of them should be on this case anymore. He almost wanted Fornell to storm NCIS and demand FBI jurisdiction. No, that wasn't true, either. He had to get a grip. He surveyed the scene. Alleys were difficult to process.

"Boss, take a look at this."

McGee stood by a dumpster, ten feet away, camera up and focused on the far end of it. He snapped a couple of shots. Gibbs and Ziva both joined him. Dark graffiti, fresh, stood out against the green painted receptacle. Another bloody message. _Getting tired of waiting. Tick tock. K._

"Does that mean they've already taken someone else, or that they've moved along to another city?" McGee said thickly.

And now part of Gibbs wanted to find whomever these messages were for and make them pay for not being fast enough. It was insane and irrational, but he was pissed as hell and had no solid place to vent his frustration. Of course, it was as much his fault for being too slow as it was for the nameless, faceless person whom the killer was taunting. More, because it was his _job_ to catch the bad guys. He turned his attention back to the body, to do just that. The MO with this was different, the first person found outside his or her home. He wondered how many of Tony's last hours had been spent being tortured by sick bastards who just grew too impatient to do anything but kill him. They weren't happy thoughts.

"I don't know, McGee."

That might actually be the worst thing about all of this: his own helplessness. He was good at mental puzzles, at finding a place for every piece, but in this he didn't even have the border defined here. He really only needed one piece – the intended recipient of the messages would answer so many questions, a good place to start. The method of delivery was faulty if they _weren't_ intended for the police or NCIS. No one else would have access, and it sure as hell hadn't been leaked to the press, here or in all other eight cases. He glanced at the end of the alley again, caught glimpses of all the onlookers. A tall figure at the edge of the crowd turned away quickly, floppy hair obscuring his face. Gibbs squinted. The flash of the camera drew Gibbs' gaze back to the bloody words. He watched as Ziva took a swab for evidence.

"Oh, dear," he heard behind him. Ducky.

"Oh, god," came half a second later. Palmer.

Gibbs wasn't sure if he was ready to watch Ducky perform his on scene examination, but he really didn't have much of a choice. He moved to stand closer, but not close enough to hover. Ducky shot him a horrified, sympathetic look and started working without saying another word. There were no words for when a team member died. A friend, even, or as close to friendship as Gibbs would allow himself with those he worked with most closely. Tony was a pain in his ass, almost like a kid at times, but the potential to be an outstanding agent was there. Had been there. He watched, tried to keep himself detached emotionally, all the while thinking of the other things he should do right now. It wasn't until Ducky and Palmer gently turned Tony over that his gut really tightened.

"Oh, Anthony," Ducky murmured.

Tony's face was gone. Mauled, a mess of blood and bone. Gibbs leaned down, rested his hands on his knees. He took several deep breaths, but none of them really settled the burning rage and sickness within him.

"The MO changed again," Ziva said, her tone that same matter-of-fact one she possessed. For some reason, it pissed him off a little. "Why?"

"They're demanding a confrontation. These may not be personal against the victims, but they _are_ personal attacks against someone," Ducky said. "Their behavior is erratic, irrational. I wouldn't be surprised to learn at least one of them suffers a serious mental illness. The ringleader, perhaps."

They already knew all that. What Gibbs needed was for something new, something genuinely useful to crop up. It might be too late for DiNozzo, but he could still attempt to dole out justice. All of the victims deserved for their killers to be caught, at the very least. And there could be someone else out there right now, suffering unimaginable things. He straightened and stepped away, let Ducky and Ziva conduct their speculative conversation, partly listening, mostly not.

The alley was a convenience drop, which meant it was likely their killers were based somewhere close by. That was more than he'd had to work with thus far. But it came too late. It was too late for Tony. Gibbs shook his head. The killers probably hadn't taken the time to stage the scene, so there was a decent chance of gaining viable evidence. He needed to stop thinking about anything else but finding something that would put these people away.

"Ziva, we've got work to do," he said, even though hashing things out was working. "Ducky?"

"The monsters," Ducky said. "Multiple bite wounds, bruising, just like Petty Officer Bowman. He was tortured fast and hard, Gibbs. Poor Anthony's final hours were not ones I would wish on my worst enemy."

Oh, shit, he wanted Ducky to shut up. Ducky looked up, caught his eye and he could see realization creep into his expression, then regret. Gibbs swallowed a couple of times, shook his head slightly. He didn't have the minutes to spare.

"Time of death?"

"I'd estimate it was between 0530 and 0630."

"That was only a few hours ago. Someone could have seen something."

Gibbs scanned the crowd at the far end of the alley again. He doubted anyone who'd seen a body dump would stick around. If they hadn't alerted the cops, they probably weren't interested in helping an investigation. In this neighborhood, it was better to stay out of the limelight. Still, it was a place to start. There were also a lot of people. He waved Ziva toward one end of the crowd, while he walked toward the other. He needed to speak with the lead officer, find out who had called it in; maybe he was wrong about them sticking around. He was tired of questions leading only to more questions, and having an actual person to speak to might get some bona fide answers. His phone rang before he tracked down the officer.

"Gibbs."

 _"Is it true?"_ Abby's raspy voice said. He looked up at the sky, dreading having to tell her. _"Is Tony…?"_

"It looks that way, Abs," he said gently.

 _"Oh, no."_ She sounded broken, like he felt on the inside. _"Oh, Gibbs."_

"I'm going to find these bastards."

 _"I know you are. We are. I can't believe Tony's gone."_

"I know," he said. He could feel over the phone how much she needed to hug him at the moment. He had to admit he felt a hug might do him some good as well. "We'll see you in a while, okay, Abs? We've got more for you to work with now."

 _"Okay."_ She paused. _"But there was another reason I called."_

"What is it?"

 _"It's not good."_ Nothing could be worse than Tony's disfigured body. " _Someone got into the lab. I don't know how or even when, since I've been here round the clock, but they took pieces of evidence. I'm sorry, Gibbs. I screwed up big time."_

Gibbs took a deep breath. He was wrong. There was something worse than seeing Tony dead – it was having evidence that might help convict these killers go missing. Tampering led to questioning credibility. When he finally caught them, they'd probably go free. Damnit. People didn't just break into Abby's lab. Hell, they didn't get into the building without jumping through hoops, and not everyone had the access to get to certain areas of the building. Certain areas like her lab. A guest pass wouldn't get a person very far, and never without an escort. He clenched his jaw and looked back at Ducky and Palmer working grimly. It was like he couldn't look away.

"What did they get?" he said.

 _"The gun and the knife from the Bowman scene."_

"Nothing else?" He frowned. "They didn't try to tamper with anything?"

 _"Yeah. Uhm. They took some of the blood samples."_ Shit, whatever case they had for Bowman was now gone. All the test results in the world wouldn't matter. Gibbs clenched his jaw tightly and counted to ten. " _I already checked for prints. Everywhere. There aren't any."_

"You checked the surveillance tapes, right?"

 _"I'm doing that right now, Gibbs."_

"Call me when you know more."

 _"I'm really sorry. I don't know how…"_

"Abby," he said, calm despite the anger that filled him. He wasn't angry with her, much; it wasn't her fault. He was angry about everything else, and the last person he ever wanted to take all of his frustrations out on was Abby. "It's okay. You've got the prints from the scene logged, and the photos, and the results from the blood samples. There wasn't much there anyway, nothing useable or it wouldn't have gotten this f…never mind. The weapons weren't used and the blood was probably already compromised. I doubt any of it would have broken the case."

 _"Gibbs, you shouldn't be nice to me. You should fire me."_

"I don't have the power to fire you, and I wouldn't if I did." Frankly, he hoped he'd be able to prevent that obvious ramification. This was big. He knew it, and Abby knew it. "We'll deal with the consequences later. Work on re-building whatever case we've got with materials that haven't been tainted, and whatever we get from this scene. I need you more focused than ever."

 _"I'll try,"_ she said softly, _"to not think about Tony."_

"Yeah, me too."

He hung up abruptly, resisted the urge to drop the cell phone onto the ground and stomp it into a million pieces. Missing evidence, no matter how irrelevant or circumstantial, would reflect poorly when they caught the killers and prosecuted them. Or killed them. It wasn't like Abby to leave things unattended, which…his brain started finding the outside edge of the puzzle. The killers wouldn't be so bold as to break into a government facility, so whoever had done it…and he admitted he was probably reaching…had been the person the messages were for. He flashed to the nervous man he'd run into at the office, at the elevators, and then to the tall figure in the gawker crowd who'd turned away just a few minutes ago. The stature, the hair, the furtiveness were all the same. There was no way it was coincidence that this person kept showing up.

"Son of a bitch," he said.

A quick perusal of the crowd showed the guy was long gone.


	5. Chapter 5

__

* * *

_Dean held no love for cops of any kind, but the look on Tony's face as Kate's henchmen pulled him from the room tore at him. Once Tony had been compromised, Kate had been right – Dean's hands were virtually tied again. His vision went hazy. He blinked a couple of times, but it didn't help. Through the buzz in his ears, he heard the cell door clank shut, and he stopped trying to see. He let his head drop to the dirty floor, and also let himself groan. Good ol' boy Duane had done a number on him. It didn't help that he'd been smacked around by a 5'4", 115 lb woman prior to the actual bloodletting. He felt the bruises from that forming already, the itch of blood on his shoulder._

"Dean…?" Tony said, then the outer door shut and he was alone.

Shit. Dean tried really hard to not contemplate what Kate had in store for the guy. It didn't take much imagination at all. No one deserved getting killed at the hands of a psycho vampire and her dedicated, stupid followers. Dean thought preparing Tony would help, but he'd misjudged the effectiveness of telling the truth. It wasn't exactly easy to prepare someone for the fact vampires were real. Hell, he hadn't even really believed it himself until he saw them. He closed his eyes and imagined Tony staring at him in horrified confusion as he was tortured, and then, of course, Sam's face superimposed over the image.

Dean rolled over onto his back, stared at the ceiling and thought about whether or not the walls were soundproof. He didn't hear any screaming yet. It probably wouldn't be long before Kate came back in to taunt him some more. Or worse, it would be Tony, turned just like she'd threatened. He didn't want to have to kill someone he knew had been a decent person at one point. It could be argued that Kate had probably been good and decent once, but he'd only ever known her as a monster. The morality of killing her was black and white, cut and dried. A turned Tony…or, even worse, a turned Sam…was a whole mess of gray, even grayer than Lenore and her clan had been if only because of the personal connection. There he went again, letting his imagination get the better of him. Sam could take care of himself.

Of course, so could he and yet there he lay.

He shivered, suddenly very cold. He was probably going into shock. The cut on his cheekbone burned in contrast. So much for preventing infection, and a lot of good that preventative measure had done for Tony. Dean sat up slowly, waited for the cell to stop doing vicious loops and his vision to settle. He was well and truly fucked if Sam didn't come through for him, and god, Dean almost hoped he didn't. The vampires had stayed one step ahead of them all the way across the country, killed people just like Tony before he and Sam could get to them. They'd keep doing it until they were dead or they had Sam, and if they had Sam then Dean would find a way to kill them all and they'd be dead anyway. He preferred the shorter route to the same destination.

He spotted his jacket lying next to the wall, didn't remember how or when it had been stripped off him. Moving wasn't exactly appealing, but he had no choice. The jacket looked about a thousand miles away, but he couldn't stop shaking and needed to try to prevent shock.

"Oh, jeez," he moaned as he sort of crawled and scooted over, reminding himself the whole trek that he'd had worse. He hated getting blood on the jacket, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made. He pulled it up over him like a blanket, felt warmer just from having the weight on him. He reached up cautiously to the bite mark on his shoulder. It was already clotting. "Okay, that's much better."

"Talking to yourself, Dean?"

He looked over, startled, and saw Kate by the cell door, one arm propped against a bar. Christ, he was really losing his edge. He hadn't heard her come back in again. Again. Dean tried and probably failed to look like he felt a hell of a lot better than he did. His vision, along with continued haziness, started doubling on him. More often than not, there were two Kates in front of him. As if one wasn't bad enough.

"Bet you're wondering why I didn't bleed you myself."

"Uh, no," Dean said. He leaned his head against the wall, pulled the jacket closer. He was getting bored with her methods. "Not really. I was actually thinking about my car. It's about time for a tune up."

"I don't want your blood polluting me," she said, going ahead with an explanation he didn't have any interest in. She studied the nails of her right hand, looking nonchalant. "The thought of your disgusting killer blood mixing with mine makes me sick. Luther wouldn't like it."

"I doubt Luther would care much, being dead and all," Dean said. "And you know, you're pretty judgmental for being a killer yourself."

"I kill to survive. You just kill."

"Well, that's bullshit and you know it." Dean looked away, toward the door. "What, you got rid of the other guy so you could come in here and have a heart to heart with me?"

He started panting slightly by the end of the sentence, winded. Shit. He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them back up slowly. So much for making a good show of it.

"Because I have to say heart to heart conversations are really not my thing."

"No, those are probably more up your brother's alley. Don't worry. When I get my blood in him, he won't be quite so touchy-feely. At least not _that_ way."

Dean glared at her.

"And I got rid of the other guy because he was a fed." She held up a wallet. "Your brother seems to be taking his old sweet time. I thought maybe he needed some help. Once I finish with Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, the feds will be hopping, therefore so will little Sammy."

Kate prowled around the cage again, and Dean was glad she stayed on the outside instead of coming in to get all over him. He shuddered slightly. His head felt thick and he didn't have the energy to watch her, so he kept her in his peripheral vision only. If he knew Sam, and he did, he'd be way ahead of the feds. He'd almost certainly already searched most of the way through their list of possible nest sites, slowed only by fretting over Dean's capture. Sam had probably spent lots of time fretting. Dean grimaced, slumped to his good side for a minute and then struggled to sit up straight.

"You're pretty stupid. Sam'll skip town to avoid getting caught. You're just going to call them down on yourself."

"Nice try. I'm not really worried about them, and I know Sam won't go anywhere without you. Special little Sam will come try to get his big brother long before the _authorities_ figure anything out. Then he'll be mine, you'll be dead and we'll be gone before anyone else even gets close."

The chill that seemed to pervade every inch of him suddenly evaporated and was replaced with the dull heat of anger. It wasn't going to happen like that. He took several quick breaths, tried to dispel the very idea with every shaky exhalation. Dean managed to laugh weakly and shook his head, refusing to rise to the bait again. It was bad enough that he literally was bait for Sam, he wouldn't also be mouse to her cat.

"You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. It's more likely you'll be with your dead boyfriend before the end of the day."

"And just who do you think is going to kill me? You?" Kate said. She crouched down at the side of the cage near him, legs encroaching into the cell. She leaned her face close to the bars. "Please, I don't think so. Sam? Sam'll take one look at the state you're in – you look really pathetic, by the way, but the bloody and bruised look is kind of hot despite how despicable you are – and he'll do anything to get you out of here. _Anything._ I know how you boys work. I've watched you."

"We'll see," he said, but a small part of him panicked because Sam _would_ do anything if it meant getting him free. His brother had harebrained ideas sometimes.

"Yes, we will." She tilted her head, eyes glittering and dark. "Now, how about some food? Water, maybe. I don't want you completely limp when Sam bleeds you. It'll be more enjoyable to see you fight in vain, maybe beg a little."

He clenched his jaw and said nothing. It. Wasn't. Going. To. Happen. To his surprise, Kate actually walked over to a dark corner and came back with a bottle of water. Instantly, it felt as though his salivary glands had been blocked, his mouth filled with charcoal. Kate laughed at him, tossed the bottle into the cell and watched it roll across the floor. Dean tracked it the best he could, with his eyes only. He didn't make a move. He wasn't sure if he could, and he also wanted to maintain what pretense of control he'd established. The bottled rolled to a stop about three feet away from him. He stared at Kate.

"I've got other things to do now. That pretty, pretty agent would make a nice addition to my little family. Put him in jeans and boots, or leather…mmm," Kate said, and licked her lips. "Bet he'd make a great lure, not that we need to play games to feed. It's just more fun that way."

She opened the door, and glanced out briefly. The screams Dean had wondered about before started on her cue. Kate peered back at him.

"I couldn't resist having a little fun with him for a while," she said. She tapped the edge of the door. "I've reconsidered. I don't think I'll turn him after all, just watch him suffer beautifully before I take all the blood from his veins."

"You're a real bitch, Kate."

"Why, thank you, how nice of you to say. I'll let you know when Sam gets here."

She smiled leisurely, and left the door open a crack so he could hear everything that was happening to DiNozzo but do nothing. Dean tried to tune the screams out, couldn't. He hadn't known Tony for a very long time, but it didn't matter; he was someone Dean was supposed to help protect from monsters. It didn't take more than a minute before the screams started fading into muffled whimpers and groans, and yet it seemed everlasting. It seemed like he would hear those death noises forever, if only in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, and ground his teeth together tightly when even the faintest sounds of torture finally stopped. The silence was thick, like a pall, and almost worse than the tortured cries. The only comfort he could take was knowing it hadn't lasted long for the poor guy. It was very small comfort.

Dean couldn't dwell on things he couldn't control. He opened his eyes and fixed his attention on the water bottle. It wouldn't help much, but it was something. He needed some strength, so he could help when Sam came. He shrugged the jacket off, cringing when he saw the new maroon stains on the lining. His vision was starting to improve, while his body started really feeling the aches and pains. That little Heather had some muscle on her. Reality bit him in much the same way Duane had; he was going to be piss-all help for Sam, which was, of course, the whole point. Kate wasn't as stupid as he wished she was, but she was no Sam. No matter how much the seed she'd planted in his head bothered him, he knew Sam wouldn't walk blindly into a trap.

He took a deep breath and crawled one-handedly for the bottle. From outside, he heard voices and laughter, a couple of dull thudding slaps but no pain-filled cries. Bottle in hand, he paused long enough to glare at the still-open door. He'd recognize the sounds anywhere. The sick fucks were beating down on Tony's dead body for reasons he didn't even want to think about. Yeah, and he was the killer, the bad guy. Kate's lack of rationale shouldn't have astounded him, but it did. Dean resituated himself by his jacket. The initial shock of the beating and bleeding was passing, he thought. Hoped. He finished the bottled water in four long gulps, and actually did feel better. He felt one step up from shit.

The voices got louder. Dean eyed the door, and waited for Kate to make another appearance. It wasn't like he expected to be left alone for the duration; she'd probably keep torturing him nice and slow. He winced, not looking forward to it. He gave quick flex of his biceps, as if to test them and make sure they still worked. They did. Now that she didn't have leverage to use by way of another prisoner, he wasn't going to just lie there and take it. He steeled himself. Kate had sent one of the thugs. The one who _hadn't_ fanged him. Alex.

"Kate says I can play with you now," Alex said, voice deep. "If I'm nice and gentle."

"Fantastic," Dean said. "Maybe a group game would be better. Invite the others. We'll play Twister."

"They can't, they're all go…"

The guy caught on, and stopped talking before he said anything else that might be useful. He growled and tromped over to the cell, unlocked it and entered unceremoniously. Dean had to say Alex's forward nature was a welcome change from Kate's undead sex kitten routine. He carefully flicked his eyes to the open cell door, and then took stock of his new best friend. He didn't stand much of a chance against Mr. Muscles in the physical department, given his weakened condition. He noted the barb-like pins stuck in the guy's jean jacket, either keeping it together or some lame idea Alex must have had that made him think it looked cool.

"So it's just you and me. What do you have in mind, then? I should warn you, I'm really good at chess so you might not want to choose that." Alex responded by yanking him to an upright position by his shirtfront. "Let me guess. Tag, I'm it?"

Dean saw an opportunity in their positions, though. He pulled what he'd otherwise classify as a dirty move and kneed Alex in the groin, crazily hoping that the undead still felt that kind of agony. Alex smacked him once on his way to a hunched position, leaving Dean seeing stars again. Not enough stars to impede him palming a couple of the pins from the vampire's jacket, and pocketing them quickly. He darted (hobbled) for the door, but Alex recovered quickly and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. Damn, those were big hands. Dean was flung, and a millisecond before he hit the wall he knew it was going to really, really hurt. Something cracked, his head against the wall or maybe his ribs.

"Anh, she said gentle, gentle," Dean wheezed, and kind of flopped around on the floor. He tasted blood. "When mommy gets home, I'm telling."

"Alex, stop!" Huh. Never would have thought he'd be glad to hear Kate's voice. She sounded distant and tinny and all wrong. He thought maybe the crack had been his head _and_ his ribs. "I said you could play with him not kill him, you fucking idiot. Duane, Heather, get him out of here."

Dean retched a little, spitting blood. He zoned out while the vampires argued among themselves, only vaguely aware of Kate entering the cell and standing above him.

"That was a miscalculation on my part, Winchester. Sorry. It's a good thing we didn't get very far away," Kate said. "Alex gets…aroused easily, in more ways than one. He might have killed you before I gave Sam the chance to, and I would have really missed watching that."

She ran her fingers through his hair in a mock gesture of sympathy. He jerked away, causing pain that revived him slightly. Kate wiped her hand across his sleeve, then stood up. She left again, and he was alone with his misery. Dean fingered the pins in his pocket and dimly wondered how long he'd have to wait to make sure they were actually gone before he could pick the lock and get his ass out of jail for free.

* * *

He clasped Abby on the shoulder gently. A quick semi-hug was all either of them could afford, time-wise or emotion-wise. She raised a hand and squeezed his, but didn't say anything. Gibbs didn't know how, but her lab was even quieter than it had been since they'd first learned of Tony's disappearance. His Abs was a trooper, though, as she continued to work at her same frenzied pace even without the outward chaotic energy that was her to the core. He expected nothing less.

"I've found six shots of our guy, Gibbs. There are probably more," Abby said, moving out of his grasp. "He's good, though."

She put a collage of digital stills on the big screen, and he saw instantly what she meant. He moved around and stood directly in front of the screen, staring all the while. Every single shot was just like his memory of the guy– vague and slightly out of focus. It was like the guy was there but not, a spook. Gibbs stared at the young, lanky man and again felt the urge to kick something. Whoever he was, he _was_ good. He hadn't been able to avoid the security cameras entirely, but even through the checkpoints he had averted his face, let his hair flop down to obstruct any clear view the cameras might have picked up. They couldn't identify him by anything other than his height, hair color and bad style.

"He's damn good." Might have been a decent recruit for someone. Too bad all Gibbs wanted to do now was wring his elusive neck. "You're sure you got no prints?"

"Not in here. He took them with him right along with the weapons. Walked everything right out the front door."

"Focus," he said, and hated himself for it. In a way it was better for her to berate herself about losing evidence (albeit from a highly skilled thief) than to think about…other things. Like Tony, cold, naked and dead down with Ducky. Gibbs squinted at the screen, and the images didn't get any clearer. "What else do you have?"

"Nothing on the mystery man or why he's been roaming the halls, and until I get more from McGee, Ziva or Ducky, I'm fresh out of anything useful at all. I'm useless, Gibbs," Abby said.

"You're anything but useless. I need you to stay on this, Abs."

He looked back at her, then, really made eye contact for the first time since he'd come back without McGee and Ziva, and without hope for Tony. Gibbs could barely stand it. Her eyes were huge, and so clear with grief her gaze was like a physical blow. Suddenly, it felt like they didn't have time to not have time. He moved back over to her quickly, wrapped his arms around her and it felt so good to have just this little bit of human comfort, however brief it had to be.

"We do this," he whispered. "We do it for DiNozzo, okay?"

"You're right." She nodded, and sniffled twice. "I just needed a second."

Gibbs needed more than a second. He needed bourbon. He started to have an inkling that the break in and missing evidence wouldn't matter in the long run, because these bastards weren't ever going to see a trial. Ethics be damned. They'd all die trying to escape. It was a temptation he honestly didn't know if he'd be able to resist if given half a chance. One of Abby's computers beeped.

"That's probably McGee sending me pictures from the new crime scene," Abby said, and pulled away from him at last. She shook herself, stood up straighter and moved over to the computer. "Yeah, he's sending me files. Let me just pull up the first message. I can compare it with the one left near To…the new one."

"Keep me informed, Abs," he said, and headed for the door. "I need to go see if Ducky's actually back yet."

"Oka…wait. Gibbs! Oh, no, no, no. This can't be happening."

He rushed back into the lab, faintly relieved that his grueling visit to Ducky's lab was temporarily delayed. There was only so long he could delay the inevitable, as that cliché went. Soon he'd have to face seeing DiNozzo again.

"What? What is it?"

"Someone's…how the…someone's erasing files, Gibbs. Someone's hacked in and has started deleting items relating to the Bowman case."

Oh, hell, just when he'd thought nothing else could possibly go wrong. It wasn't "someone," though. It stood to reason that if someone was determined enough to waltz around their offices, he might also feel the need to traipse around electronically. It had to be their mystery man. He couldn't think of a reason for hacking other than complicity in the actual crimes. Gibbs' irritation with the mystery man was well founded but he honestly didn't believe the guy was also their killer, which made this all the more confusing.

"Well, make it stop," he said sharply.

"I'm trying, but he's really quick. Where's McGee when I need him?"

"Uh, here?" Gibbs spun around, saw a now perpetually stunned-looking McGee at the door, and Ziva behind him. "We just got back."

"McGee, quick, pull up a chair. Someone's in our system," Abby said.

"That's impossible."

"Clearly it isn't, McGee. Get over there and help her do whatever it is you two do."

"On it, Boss."

Technology wasn't his thing, because it didn't need to be. He had faith they'd handle it. Or do their damnedest. Gibbs stood out of the way for the next few minutes, uncertain what was going on. All he really knew was Ziva slid up next to him silently, and both McGee and Abby's fingers clattered across keyboards at a rapid speed, amid bursts of "How is he doing this?" and "Holy crap!" and other various mutterings he didn't pay much attention to.

If DiNozzo were around, he'd mock the dynamic duo as he always did, with nothing but affection at the root of it. He actually missed Tony shooting off his mouth about the geekery, something he never thought he'd feel. As sophomoric as Tony tended to be, Gibbs had to admit he often just said what the rest of them thought. He smiled sadly. Tony _wasn't_ there. Abby's phone rang, and it pulled him from his reverie. Ziva was closer to it, so she picked it up.

"This is…how did you know my name?" she said. Gibbs glanced her way, watched her expression. McGee and Abby kept clattering away, and muttering various imprecations. Ziva stiffened as whomever was on the other end of the phone spoke. After a second, she abruptly held the receiver out toward Gibbs. "He wants to talk with you. He asked by name."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows, took the phone.

"Gibbs."

" _Agent Gibbs."_

"Yes, and who am I talking to?"

" _Who I am isn't really important. I'm not who you're really after, not in the long run."_ He heard quiet confidence in the tone, but also something more. Something like desperation, and quiet fear. The guy sounded somehow young and old at the same time. Gibbs knitted his eyebrows. " _I do happen to know who killed all those people, though, and I have to say you're in over your heads. You're good; you'll probably figure it out in time. Tell Abby and McGee they don't have to work so hard. I don't need State secrets or anything. It should all be over soon."_

"Breaking into a government agency, stealing evidence from a murder, hacking into classified files are all highly illegal activities. I'd like to know where you studied," Gibbs said. He nodded at Ziva, who was already on getting a line trace. McGee and Abby didn't pause from their task. "When I catch you, you'll spend a lot of time in prison for it, and I could probably charge you with accessory to murder."

" _Yeah, probably,"_ the voice said. Gibbs detected a laughing note, as if the guy didn't expect there was a snowball's chance in hell that he'd be caught. _"But I can't stress this enough - you really don't know what you're dealing with, but you know that sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. That Abby might_ _ **think**_ _she has some idea what's going on, but I doubt she really could. I hope she never does know, the way the vic…I guess the point is that some things are better left as rumors, lies and fairy tales."_

"What?" This conversation made no sense, like the guy had just called up to chat about crazy topics. It made about as much sense as an 80-year-old woman being the head of some pseudo-vampire cult. "How the hell do you know who we all are?"

" _Never mind, that doesn't matter either. I have to go now. I just…"_

"You just what?" Gibbs said. He couldn't wrap his brain around why the guy was calling them. By all evidence, he was smart and knew they'd run a trace. As he thought it, he saw Ziva nodding at him. "Wanted to rub it in my face how you waltzed on in here, right under our noses?"

" _No, not at all. I just want you to know these things won't get away with what they've done, to Petty Officer Bowman, to Agent DiNozzo, to all those others."_

"Of course they won't. I'll hunt them down myself. But I also want to know what your involvement is in all this, why ten people had to die to deliver messages I assume are for you. Fourteen dead if you count the cops. What's at stake for you?" Ziva waved her hand in the air, asking him to draw it out a little more. The guy didn't respond. Gibbs heard a couple of beeps, maybe the sound of a door shutting. "Hello? Hey!"

"Gibbs?" Ziva said.

"He's not on the line anymore, but he didn't hang it up."

"That will make it very easy to get a location on him. I just need a few more seconds."

"No, you don't," Abby said numbly, looking up. "He just…stopped. It was like a surgical attack, in cyberspace. He only took certain things, though I couldn't tell you why. They don't seem connected by anything other than being evidence on the same case."

"How bad?" Gibbs said, moving over to stand next to her. He tried to shake off the utter bizarreness of the phone conversation he'd just had and focus. Something told him they were close to making that crucial break, even if he didn't understand a damned thing yet. "How much did he get?"

"He was…amazing. His skill and method reminded me of someone I knew back at MIT, at least before he got asked to leave. I wonder whatever happened to…"

"Not now, McGee," Gibbs said.

"Right, Boss. He only got a third of what was logged in for the Bowman case," McGee said. "Some of it we have backups on, obviously."

" _Only_?" There was no only. Now there wasn't even a remote chance Bowman's killers would ever be effectively prosecuted, if Gibbs decided to let them live. He couldn't help but wonder what their mystery man meant when he said it would be over soon, the computer attack or something else. "Is that all? Some punk just punked us, and I'm getting the feeling he did it just to show us he could."

"To answer your question, no, Gibbs, that's not all," Abby said. He stared at her. She still looked shocked. "The guy did some serious damage. Then he just stopped deleting, but he left the connection open. We know exactly where he is."

Just like the phone. Gibbs scowled.

"Then let's go get him and get some answers out of him. Where is he?"

"He's at Tony's place," Abby and Ziva said simultaneously and they both sounded appalled and awed.

" _Son_ of a _bitch_ ," Gibbs said, experiencing a spark of déjà vu. He was going to have a serious discussion with this guy. "Abby, keep working. McGee, Ziva, with me."

He didn't have to tell them. Both were already running for the door.


	6. Chapter 6

Unfortunately, as soon as Tony was outside the cell room, his brain started catching up with what was happening around him. If he were honest, it finally caught up all the way back to the morning on scene at Bowman's condo. God, he didn't even know how long ago that had been. It was as if he'd been blindfolded and was only now seeing things for how they were. He didn't like what his brain figured out, namely that touched-in-the-head Dean Winchester wasn't so touched after all. The crazy man had been telling him the truth, not a really elaborate and farfetched story, and this was no nightmare he was going to awaken from in a cold sweat. Tony definitely preferred it when he was ignorant and skeptical, because nasty, bloodsucking monsters were okay when they appeared on celluloid in movie theaters and not when they showed up in his city. For real.

The door slammed shut behind them, echoing loudly. Tony stopped struggling, because even if he didn't feel like lukewarm, mostly congealed oatmeal, Alex and Duane were taller, bigger and more, well, vampirish than he was and he couldn't break free. Expending energy on a pointless effort seemed like a bad idea, though he didn't think he'd get the chance to actually use whatever energy he managed to conserve. He slumped slightly, and played like a kicked puppy. It was less playing than it was his actual physical state. From what little he understood about his captors (vampiresvampires holyshitvampires), he knew aggression on his part wouldn't help anyway. There was nothing he could do to improve his situation.

"Strip off his shirt, cuff him and hang him over by the other one," Kate said. Once upon a time Tony had thought his own Kate was kind of bitchy, sometimes falsely and sometimes not. Kate Todd, as it turned out, had been something of an angel as compared to this Kate. Wait…other one? What did she mean by that? "I haven't decided what to do with our special agent yet. I don't want to kill Winchester, but I have a good idea how to hurt him."

Cold, strong fingers clawed at his chin and brought his face up. Tony looked into hard, brown eyes, then averted his own. Kate forced his head sharply to the left, and then to the right. He had the horrible realization that she was sizing him up like a piece of meat. God, that was probably what he was to her. A pre-dinner snack. Oh, shit. He was going to end up like Petty Officer Bowman, and soon. His insides felt like they were quivering, like someone had shaken the congealed bowl of oatmeal and made it ripple nauseatingly. Duane and Alex hefted him away from Kate.

Tony looked around the room wildly, suddenly very ready to expend his energy in an escape attempt. It was as useless as he'd already determined. He wasn't going anywhere, and the room yielded nothing helpful. He searched for anything, anything at all. The only things in the room were a couple of rough pallets and dust. Except then he saw the other one, who turned out to be a man about Tony's size and build. He hung from a large exposed pipe by his wrists, and the expression on his face epitomized what Tony felt. The guy flailed weakly, already covered in bruises and blood.

"Oh, god," the man whimpered when Tony made eye contact with him. Kind of. There was a glazed look to the man's eyes that made Tony think he'd checked out, which wasn't actually a bad idea considering the circumstances. "Oh, god."

He wanted to tell the guy he'd be okay, and not to worry. He couldn't, because that would be an enormous lie. He had faith his team was going to figure it out. He just more than suspected they'd do it way too late, for him, for this poor schmuck, and for Dean Winchester. Tony didn't even have the chance to ask his new fellow prisoner's name. Alex…or maybe it was Duane wrested his shirt off of him. His own handcuffs were slapped on his wrists and then he was rigged with a chain. Tony hissed as they pulled him up by his wrists, strung him up just like the poor guy next to him. He cursed under his breath when they pulled the chain high enough that he had to stand on tiptoes.

"You shouldn't hold your feelings in, it's not good for you," Kate said. She paced in front of him for a moment, then flicked her eyes toward her feral-looking companions. "Hurt this one a little. You can kill the other, but wait until I have the door open. I think Winchester might want to know what's happening out here. Or at least he'll think he knows."

The nameless guy kept on sobbing quietly, and Tony couldn't blame him. He didn't like the words "hurt" and "kill" in any context, let alone for their situation. Kate went back into the room with the cell, at the same time as Duane smacked Poor Schmuck so hard and sudden he produced a loud wail. Tony opened his mouth to shout, but suddenly Heather pressed up against him, one hand over his mouth and the other busy…everywhere else on his body. He couldn't see anything, but he could hear. No more punches were given, but Duane and Alex taunted Poor Schmuck with threats of all sorts of creative and apparently forthcoming torture methods.

"I hope we get to keep you," Heather whispered in his ear. Then she stuck her tongue in it, and wriggled against him suggestively. "Duane does nothing for me, and it turns out Alex likes boys better than girls. We could have such a good time together."

Tony shuddered in revulsion, really not down with being a vampire's plaything…and then it dawned on him what she meant. He didn't like that idea either. He didn't see the point of immortality if the only way to accomplish it was to become a monster.

"I really don't think so," he said into her hand, so it came out more like, "Mi mimmy mone minf mo."

Of course he didn't have much say in the matter, unless he used his tiny reserve of energy to piss them off enough to kill him. Not a terrible idea, but definitely a last resort.

The verbal taunts to Poor Schmuck continued for a few minutes, as did Heather's assault to his person. If she were a real live woman, he'd have a good case for harassment. The more Tony tried to move away from her, the closer Heather got up on him. She was like some super freaky octopus vampire or something. Why not? There was no way this could get any weirder or more unfortunate.

Then suddenly Poor Schmuck started screaming and screaming. God help him, he was actually a little relieved that he wasn't the one enduring whatever was causing such howling. Kate was also suddenly back in front of him, shooing Heather out of the way. Tony opened his mouth to say something, he wasn't sure what, but she backhanded him quickly. While he was still reeling from the blow, a large cloth something was jammed into his mouth, tape put across it.

"I had a talk with Dean. He thinks you'd be better off dead, but I'm still not so sure," Kate said quietly. "I just can't decide."

Or maybe she spoke in a normal tone and he could barely hear her because Poor Schmuck was still wailing loudly. Tony winced, consciously avoided looking over when the screams softened to mere whimpers. The guy hadn't stood a chance in hell. Aside from Kate, every member of the bloodthirsty set of vampires was focused on Poor Shmuck, and shit Tony wished he knew the guy's name because it was damned disrespectful to keep calling him that. He looked like a Ned.

Kate toyed with his belt, unbuckling it and sliding it slowly off of his trousers. Oh, shit, not more of this. Tony tried to move away, but now his shoulders really started to feel the pressure every time he jerked. He settled for spitting insults at her, confident she knew exactly what he was saying despite the gag. She chuckled.

"You've got spirit, I'll give you that." She unbuttoned him, slid his fly down slowly. Poor Schmuck had stopped making any noise, and Tony knew what that meant. Ned was dead. Dead Ned. "Do me a favor and take off your shoes?"

"Mi momphe mou mie min ma mire," Tony said.

She grabbed his face and squeezed. He had no idea why he wasn't dead already, but he saw in her eyes that he was getting closer by the second. He struggled to slide his shoes off, hindered by fear and the fact he was strung up. Next to them, Duane and Alex were muttering and laughing over Poor Schm….Ned's body.

"Duane, get that guy's clothes off. He looks a good fit for this suit. What a happy coincidence it was we found him," Kate said. She pulled Tony's trousers down, staring at him with glittering, amused eyes. "Step out of them."

He obeyed, and was left nearly naked. Kate gathered up his pants and shoes, and sidled over to pick up the shirt…his jacket had mysteriously appeared, too. Tony shivered, every draught of air making his bare skin prickle. He finally dared a quick look at Po…Ned, and instantly wished he'd just kept his eyes forward, on the open door of the cell room. The guy was on the floor now, a bloody, unmoving mess. Duane and Alex were kicking the corpse. Tony gave a little sympathetic, admittedly terror-filled moan.

It was only when Kate and Heather stopped the others from abusing the body and started putting his clothes on Ned that he realized the significance of the similarity of stature he and the guy shared. Shit, even the haircut was pretty much identical. He didn't know how she'd managed to come up with this kind of plan so fast, or why.

He watched while Kate took out the same knife she'd used on him earlier and started slicing up Ned's face, effectively skinning him. Hot bile rose up into his throat. Even though he knew they'd figure the truth out quickly, Tony regretted those minutes his team would think him dead and gone forever, and in such a horrible way. Gibbs would be _so_ pissed at him for dying. He knew, though, that it would spawn even more drive to find these things…and, oh, shit, was Gibbs good enough to fight the supernatural? Considering the supernatural wasn't supposed to even be an option, Tony doubted it.

"We're going to run an errand now," Kate told him. "Alex, you stay here, keep an eye on things. I don't want you to touch super special agent man – I've decided to keep him, but that has to wait until later. You can play with Winchester a little if you want. I know you would love to get your hands on him."

Duane got a hold under Ned's arms and pulled him toward the door. Kate and Heather followed. Tony noted Ned's feet dragged along the dirty floor, collecting evidence Abby would eventually get and use to help find this location. Whatever the final plan, Tony hoped and hoped and hoped some more that it would take long enough for his friends to come get him out of this mess. Hell, at the moment he'd be happy to see the other Winchester, whose existence he was, ironically, starting to question. Vampires, he could now believe in. He'd believe in Dean's brother when he showed up.

Alex prowled in front of him for a moment or two, looking displeased at the no-touch rule Kate had implemented. Then he moved intently toward the cell room. Tony winced and strained against the rag in his mouth, wishing he could shout and warn Dean. Even though he'd only known Dean under odd circumstances and for a few hours, Tony somehow suspected Dean had a bit of a runaway tongue, and a propensity to not take abuse lying down. Sure enough, Tony soon heard sounds of a scuffle from within the room.

"I forgot your belt," Kate said, as the other vampires reentered the room…building…wherever they were. "Have to make it look…"

Tony's heart pounded as a sickening thud came from the cell room. Even if that were Dean miraculously getting the upper hand (doubtful, considering the guy looked like crap the last time Tony had seen him), he'd be screwed now that the other three were back on scene. Kate swore and raced for the door, Duane and Heather right behind her. He heard a muffled argument, and then Duane and Heather came back out with Alex in tow. A minute later, Kate also came back out.

"You jackass," she hissed at Alex, raising a hand. "You know I wanted him alive for when his brother finally gets here."

"I'm sorry, Kate." Alex, big, lumbering Alex, actually looked cowed. "He…he was trying to get away, I only meant to stop him."

"Whatever, just get in the car. Duane, can I trust _you_ on guard duty? Hands off, and I promise we'll go out for dinner tonight at a strip club."

"My favorite food," Duane said, with so much delight Tony swore if he got out of this alive he'd never objectify women by going to strip clubs again.

Duane dutifully did as instructed, thank goodness, and neither touched him nor went in to torture Dean some more. Unless that just meant Dean was dead. That idea terrified him for some reason. Tony struggled to stay on his toes for a few minutes, but now that the horror show was over ( _don't think about the blood pool over there, or Ned's face, DiNozzo_ ) adrenaline seeped out of him. It was increasingly difficult to manage his position. His calf muscles burned, his shoulders tore. Everything hurt.

"Mey, Mane," Tony said. "Mow momoum mou mumaim mmph?"

Duane, who had grabbed a seat on an old crate and busied himself reading the latest issue of _Weekly World News_ , ignored him. Tony continued his tiptoe dance for as long as he could, it felt like forever, and then all his reserve energy just crapped out on him. The beatings, the blood loss, every crazy thing that had happened took its toll all at once. He sagged down, very aware of the agony doing so produced, but incapable of even groaning about it. Unconsciousness beckoned, and yet the pain was just enough to keep him from reaching it. He tuned himself out a little, started to drift into an empty space in his head. He really hoped that this was what Ned had somehow managed to escape toward the end.

He lingered in the self-created limbo, pulled out every once in a while by Duane shifting or moving about the room. Tony dazedly hung there, and his mostly numbed mind still had enough synapses firing to wander onto topics better left untouched. His looming undeath and what that might entail, specifically. Winchester, and whether or not he was okay or really was dead, as he hadn't heard a sound from the cell room. What was left of Ned's face in a sloppy pile off to his right. Gibbs, upon finding his but not his mutilated body. McGee on finding…well, all of them on finding his but not his mutilated body. Kate the vampire changing her mind, killing him and leaving his actually his mutilated body for his friends to find.

Tony mentally shook himself out of his thoughts, and regained his tiptoes. He could not just hang there apathetically and wait for the doom and gloom. He needed to channel some of Winchester's optimism that his team would figure it out and find them before his foray into the world of the undead. Ducky would know it wasn't him. Barring a rescue from his team, he conceded that if the other Winchester were as dedicated as Dean, he could show up as well. Speaking of dedicated, Tony almost couldn't believe what his now rapidly blurring eyes saw – the cell room door inching open.

"Mey, Mane!" he said. A small burst of adrenaline fueled him, a fleeting idea that he could actually _do_ something. "Mo, momph memphre."

Duane looked up at him, an ugly snarl making his ugly mug even uglier. He stood and stalked over to Tony, obviously annoyed by the interruption to his enlightened reading. Tony winced automatically, expecting some kind of physical blow. Instead, Duane just stared at him.

"What do you want?"

His captor's exasperation was almost funny. It was like Tony wasn't meat on a hook, but really an annoying kid who responded "but why?" to everything and had driven Duane crazy. He rolled his eyes at the guy.

"Mi mamnmph mimmy mam."

"I guess there's no reason to keep this on," Duane said, and proceeded to rip the tape off. Tony gave a muffled cry. "Oops."

Tony coughed when Duane extended him the courtesy of yanking the cloth out of his mouth. And then he moaned and groaned and continued to make noise. He carefully didn't look at Dean, who was moving very slowly. Too slowly. Tony just couldn't tell if that was stealth or due to injuries.

"You're a heck of a guy, Duane," Tony said. He sounded more like crap than he'd anticipated. He cleared his throat. "I don't suppose you'd get water for Kate's future new deathlong companion."

"Right."

Duane started to turn around. Tony couldn't think of a thing to do for a distraction. He looked at Dean, who looked about like Ned had right before...that wasn't good at all. He helplessly watched Duane catch sight of the guy and move lightning quick in on him. He appreciated Dean's tenacity, but it didn't seem the smartest idea to take on a vampire when looking (and therefore probably feeling) three sheets to the wind. If ever there were a time to root for the underdog, though, this was it. Tony couldn't bring himself to watch, too frustrated that he couldn't do anything to help anymore. He took the easy way out and closed his eyes

The sounds of fighting weren't much easier to handle without the visuals, especially knowing how piss-poor Dean's chances were. The scuffle didn't last long, ending with a terrible-sounding thump. Tony cracked open one eye, afraid to see and afraid not to see. For a moment all he saw was the dust and wood pallets, and then he caught sight of feet. He tracked up from there…and discovered it wasn't Dean. Dean was standing, maybe wavering, above the unconscious vampire.

"Hey, you're alive," Winchester said.

"Yeah," Tony croaked. Damn, his voice was still fucked up. "So are you. What the hell happened?"

Dean looked down at Ned's face, the small pool of congealed blood there.

"Dead man's blood," Dean gasped, as if that should mean something really profound to Tony, and then his eyes rolled up in his head and he crumpled to the floor.

Shit, not good. The others would be back soon and would find their waylaid friend, and there would be hell to pay.

* * *

All the way over to Tony's place, Gibbs watched out for traffic through a veil of red. Figuratively, of course, but that was how pissed he was. He screeched to a halt in front of the building, and for once none of his passengers made a peep about the breakneck speed in which he'd maneuvered the car. Ziva drove that way every day. He wasn't particularly concerned with stealth at this point, hurtling himself out of the car and up the sidewalk, McGee and Ziva right on his heels. They made it to Tony's apartment door at the exact same time.

Gibbs nodded at Ziva, who took position on one side of the door. McGee automatically took the other. As for him, he stood right in front of it, prepared to batter his way through. He didn't get the chance. McGee cautiously tried the handle and they discovered the door was unlocked. Of course it was. It was obvious the guy had wanted them to come here, even if it made no sense that he could suss out. Gibbs nudged the door open, peering in. he couldn't see anyone, but that didn't mean anything. He could hear the phone's loud off the hook tone. He pushed the door open wider and entered the apartment, gun out and at the ready.

He panned right, Ziva took left. It didn't take them long to clear the apartment. It was empty. Gibbs ended up in Tony's bedroom, scowling at a closet full of high-end suits Tony would never wear again, angry with that for some reason. Eventually, his companions joined him.

"Well, he's been smart this far, so it stood to reason he wouldn't still be here," Ziva said.

"Even smart people slip up. Check for prints," he said unnecessarily.

"Boss, do you really think he'd make that kind of mistake?" McGee said. Gibbs gave his sternest look, which garnered the results it always did. "Right. Assume nothing."

McGee and Ziva wandered out of the room, steps careful and quiet. They'd all been at Tony's home on several occasions, but it wasn't like they were over every week. Still, they might notice something out of place where he wouldn't. He sniffed, crinkling his nose. Some kind of funk was going on. He'd have to give Tony a hard time about not doing his laun…but then, that wasn't going to happen. Gibbs frowned at his mental slip, frowned at the closet full of suits again for good measure.

"Gibbs," Ziva said from the living room. "I've got something."

He moved back out, holstering his weapon at last, but remaining alert. He felt ridiculous for hoping their guy was somehow hiding in a closet or something, which was not likely since he had probably heard him leave after their strange conversation. Ziva crouched near Tony's Italian leather sofa, (everything was high-end for DiNozzo) examining a beat up looking laptop with a latex-gloved hand. McGee brushed by him, staring at the piece of equipment for a moment or two before donning gloves himself and clicking on a couple of keys.

"This is definitely what he used to break into NCIS. The files he took probably aren't going to be on it. He knew what he was doing."

"Gee, really? You think?" Gibbs' head hurt like hell. "Find out what you can about where it came from, check for prints, hairs, fibers or _anything_ at all that might be useful."

"Yes, Boss."

No questioning this time, good. Gibbs pinched the bridge of his nose. Ziva stood up and started moving around the room, eyes taking everything in. She went to the phone, replaced the receiver on the hook. Her eyes narrowed, opened wider and then narrowed again. She was probably thinking about the possible motivation for this wild goose chase. It was a distraction, and while he was grateful to not think about Tony's death, he was mostly just annoyed by it.

"He wanted us to come here. There must be a reason somewhere."

"Computer's the best bet, Ziva," he said. "McGee will crack it."

"Maybe, but not from here, Boss. Name of the "owner" of the computer is Ian Anderson, but I doubt he used his real name."

"Think it's a coincidence that Ian Anderson is the name of the vocalist for Jethro Tull?" Gibbs said, showing his dubious musical taste along with his age, and not caring. This guy was funny. Hilarious.

"Uh," McGee said. "Who?"

"Never mind. But let me guess – the computer was a recent purchase?"

"If the registration is anything to go by, he got this new/used this morning. Oh, you think he chose the name to give you kind of an eff you?"

"Something like that."

"I don't know if I should hate this guy or admire him," McGee said. Gibbs pursed his lips and glared again. "Definitely hate."

The proverbial bell saved McGee. Gibbs' cell rang, and he knew it was either Ducky or Director Shepard without glancing at the screen. He looked at his watch. They still had a fair amount of time before Fornell and his henchmen swooped in, and he knew Jenny wouldn't bother him needlessly at a time like this.

"Gibbs."

"Jethro, I have news. I have good news," Ducky said, much more to the point than usual. "This poor fellow on my table…whoever he is, he is most definitely not Tony."

Gibbs snapped to attention. He wasn't certain which emotion earned the top spot in the tumult suddenly going on inside him: relief, happiness, disbelief or shock. Shit, he really had counted Tony out too soon. Guilt was added to the mix. No matter which emotion was the strongest, all of it left him at a complete loss for words. Both Ziva and McGee had noticed his new stance and stood in front of him, waiting.

"Jethro, did you hear me?"

"Yeah, I heard you. You're sure?"

"Fingerprints are not a match, blood type is wrong. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make this look like Tony, for whatever sick reason." Ducky's effusiveness was regaining its customary level. "I suspected as much moments after you left the scene, but I didn't want to encourage hope. I wanted confirmation first."

"Thanks, Duck." He wouldn't have been able to take it if it that hope had turned out misleading. "Did you let Abby know?"

"I'm about to, and I'll notify the director as well. Do you think this means Tony could still be alive?"

McGee and Ziva stared at him, impatient and hopeful. He clenched his jaw almost spasmodically.

"I'm going to find that out." He snapped the phone shut, and wished he could knock back a stiff drink or two, as celebration or fortification or both. He straightened his shoulders even more. "Ducky says the man down in autopsy isn't DiNozzo."

"What?"

They both gawped at him for a couple of seconds, then smiled as the instant shock wore off in favor of a more slow-burning variety that contained a glimmer of belief. It was really good news, but the reality was they still knew next to nothing about anything, and the outlook was not favorable. If whoever had killed the John Doe in the alley and Petty Officer Bowman had Tony, chances were he was not in good shape. And there was still the question of this punk's involvement.

"Boss, that's great news."

"It is, McGee, but that means we need to get back to work," Gibbs said. "If Tony's still alive, I have a feeling we don't have a lot of time."

"Right," McGee said, going from almost elated to pensive and worried again. He sat back down at the computer.

"Gibbs, we don't have all of the equipment with us to treat this as a crime scene. Perhaps someone should return to NCIS and bring back the truck."

"It's not a bad idea, Ziva, but I don't want to be stuck here without a vehicle. No, we take what we can get now, secure the place, and come back later." Something about Tony's apartment was bothering him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Or his nose on it. He sniffed. If anything, the smell was a bit stronger out here than in the bedroom. Maybe he was wrong about it being old laundry. " _What_ is that smell?"

Everyone sniffed. The odor was faint, but distinct and pungent, and not something someone as appearance conscious as Tony would purposely have in his home.

"No one else noticed this?"

"I didn't think anything of it," Ziva said. "I assumed all American men's homes smelled like this."

"I figured it was something in Tony's garbage," McGee said, ducking his head like he was ashamed, though it was a reasonable conclusion. "It's stronger in the kitchen."

Gibbs headed that way, and learned that, yes, the smell was strong in the kitchen. He went over to the sink and opened the door to the cabinet underneath it, where the garbage can was. He recoiled slightly, heard quiet exclamations of disgust behind him. He pulled the can out, peered in carefully, breathing through his mouth. The receptacle was empty, except for what looked like ashes.

"What the hell?"

"Gibbs, look at this." Ziva pointed to a small ashy circle on the granite countertop. Tony wouldn't like that. "It looks like there was a small fire here."

"I smell skunk," McGee said randomly.

This case kept getting stranger and stranger. Fake vampires, an 80-year-old suspect, Tony dead, mystery man seriously impeding their progress, Tony _not_ dead, campfires in kitchens. It wasn't any wonder to him that he was developing a migraine. Ziva already had a bag out and scooped some of the ash to take to Abby.

"Why are we here? To find this? I don't buy it. I think this guy just wanted to watch us race halfway across the city."

"For what purpose?"

"It's possible this really is just a distraction, and he's using the time to put distance between him and the city," McGee said.

"Could be, except that he's apparently been several steps ahead of us for some time. We can't chase what we don't know."

Except that's what he felt like he'd been doing since Tony disappeared. Tony. He concentrated on that. There might still be time for him to keep this team whole. They couldn't do that standing around in DiNozzo's kitchen, chatting.

"Let's bag this stuff and get back. You and Abby can really pull the computer apart, and she can find out what this stuff is in here."

Ziva and McGee nodded and returned to work with the vigor they usually did, now that they all knew Tony could actually be alive. Gibbs could just picture Abby hopping around her lab, and thought they could afford a quick stop for a mega-sized Caf-Pow for her. What they couldn't afford was to wonder if their new hope was misleading. Hope was hope, and sometimes it just needed to be grabbed at and held onto.

"We're coming, Tony," he said, a promise to himself as well as Tony. "It won't be long now."

His phone rang again.

"Gibbs."

" _Agent Gibbs."_

Ah, a voice he'd not forget. The guy sounded out of breath, panting slightly.

"You," he said.

" _I'm sorry I had to send you all over town like that. I needed some time."_

Gibbs bristled. The distraction angle had been correct, and he had a feeling he was about to find out what it was all for.

"Time for what, exactly?"

" _I'm guessing you already know your agent's alive,"_ the guy said. Gibbs stiffened.

"I didn't have you pegged for this," he said tersely. "Other illegal things, but not kidnapping and murder."

" _I didn't kidnap or murder_ _ **anyone.**_ _Well… no. No, I didn't murder anyone. That's not what we do."_ There was a pause, and a slight hiss, followed by a sharp inhalation. Gibbs narrowed his eyes. That sounded like pain. " _I've got DiNozzo here. He's okay, mostly. Still alive, anyway. He'll be at, uh, Delafield and…4_ _th_ _Street, I think?"_

Damn, that was all the way in Petworth. Another pause, a panting exhalation. Gibbs heard none of the bravado that had been there in his prior conversation, any self-assuredness the guy had was masked by that deeper concern he'd also heard. He started doubting there had been any taunting and bravado before, that it might have been his own interpretation. He didn't like the thoughts, but ultimately it didn't matter.

" _Yeah, that's right. Delafield and 4_ _th_ _. I'd stick around, but there's someplace else I have to be. I'm going to call an ambulance, so you should hurry."_

The phone disconnected. It took Gibbs a second, but then he moved on automatic pilot, confused by his own belief in this stranger's words and yet driven to go see for himself that Tony was there, and in one piece. He felt more NASCAR-worthy feats of driving coming on.


	7. Chapter 7

"Dean," Tony said. He strained awkwardly as he tried to reach the unconscious man with his foot. "You need to wake up, because I really don't think it'll go well for you if Kate comes back and finds you. Or if Duane wakes up first."

It wouldn't exactly be great for him, either, but at the moment his concern was focused solely on getting Dean mobile. He wouldn't say he was fond of the guy, but he didn't like the thought of something worse happening to him either. The others would be back soon – a body dump couldn't take that long. Tony lost his tenuous footing altogether, and fell slightly. It sent shearing pain through his shoulders, his left in particular. He let out a cry. Where pleading and nudging didn't work, that seemed to. After his own cry faded, he heard Dean moving. At least he thought it was Dean. He glanced quickly at Duane first just to make sure.

"Winchester?"

"Yeah, 'm up," Dean said, then coughed and then groaned. "Or getting there. How long was I out?"

"Not that long," Tony said, then coughed and then groaned. "A few minutes."

"Good."

Dean dragged himself to his feet very slowly, lurching. He stumbled over to Duane, holding his right side. He fell back down to his knees, making Tony wince in sympathy. Dean kept on, grabbing for the blade Duane had apparently tried…maybe succeeded in sticking into him. There was blood on it.

"Hate to tell you this, but that's not going to cut through steel."

"It's not for you," Dean said, and promptly but weakly started sawing at Duane's throat. A burst of arterial spray splashed across Tony, and it was like an ice bath. He didn't know how it was possible for blood to be that cold, but then he didn't really understand a damned thing about the kind of monster Duane was. These vampires weren't exactly following the rules set up in _Dracula_. Probably because _Dracula_ was fake and they were real. He gasped, and gagged. Dean finished after a minute of disturbingly heartfelt, dogged hacking. He glanced over to Tony. "Looks like Duane lost his head."

"Did you have to do that?" Tony was getting colder by the second. Returning shock, or being drenched in cold blood, either could be the cause. "I'd settle for getting the hell out before Kate and her other friends get back."

"It's the only thing that kills them."

Tony stared openmouthed for a second, flicked his attention to the decapitated vampire, then back to Dean. Blood spatter and his own hazy vision made it difficult to see the extent of Dean's actual injuries, but since Tony felt on a perpetual verge of passing out, it wasn't hard to figure out. His shoulders fairly radiated agony. Dean staggered toward him, and Tony had to give the guy major credit for still being upright.

"Don't have keys," he said. "I need to get down."

"Don't need keys." Dean waved something silver at him. He couldn't tell what it was. Didn't much care. He did care when Dean slumped against him, adding pressure to an already miserable condition. "Sorry, don't think of this as a come on."

Despite himself and his pain, Tony laughed. And laughed and coughed and then laughed some more, bordering on hysteria. They were close. They might actually make it. Something clicked and then he tumbled. Both of them tumbled to the ground, a tangle of limbs and moans of discomfort that probably would embarrass the hell out of him in any other circumstance. Dean sprawled half on him and then went scarily limp, while his own arms told him the pain they'd caused before had been a pittance.

"Hey." Tony squirmed, pretending his arms weren't making him want to cut them off. "Hey, wake up."

Dean didn't move. The room suddenly filled with an unearthly yowl, like nothing Tony had ever heard. He knew it was angry, though. Tony knew what it was on some level, but he couldn't get Dean off of him. Even if he could have done, it would have been too late and he wouldn't have just left the guy lying there. Kate and Alex and Heather descended on them, back from their errand. They'd been so close. Dean's weight lifted off of him, and Kate's face appeared right in front of his.

"Now I'm pissed and I've changed my mind again." Boy, she was a fickle one. "You're too big a pain in the ass to keep around."

"Hey, I didn't do anything," Tony croaked. "And to be fair, Duane kind of started it."

She responded by brutally digging her fingers into his neck so hard he felt her nails break skin. Tony choked and knew he was looking death right in the face, and it was wrath. In a matter of seconds, Kate was either going to snap his neck or puncture it with her ugly mouthful of fangs. Her nostrils flared. It was all Tony could do to keep from whimpering.

He was granted another stay of execution, apparently. Kate suddenly let go of him. Tony collapsed back to the floor with a thud. He groaned, rocking a little because he couldn't quite use his arms to help roll himself onto his side to curl up in a ball like he instinctively wanted to. Every breath made something else hurt.

"Check Winchester. He must have found a way to undo the lock. Put them both back in the cell." For kidnappers and torturers, these things sure took their time. For which Tony was very grateful. Confused, but grateful. "I need to think."

He finally got his breathing somewhat under control, but thought no matter how shallow his breaths he was going to feel pain from now until forever. Tony realized maybe he'd been surviving between bursts of adrenaline that made him forget how truly fucked up he was. Adrenaline couldn't compensate for massive blood loss for very long. He shivered, as fierce cold returned as well. Two sets of hands grabbed his arms and twisted.

His world turned into blistering orange bursts of pain. Ohhhhh, something was damaged in a serious way. He chuckled to himself. Every part of his body was damaged in a serious way. He tried to stop the chuckles; he knew he should, that nothing was funny. Hysteria again. Not good. Someone growled, and then tried to kick it out of him, which only made him gasp and heave and laugh more because now there were red bursts along with the orange.

Tony was dragged across the floor, aware that his bare skin was being abraded (irritation that didn't really even count as a sliver of pain), and aware Dean hadn't moved or fought back. Also not good. This, he thought, was the final reprieve. If they didn't get out of it, or someone didn't get them out of it, there was no getting. On the plus side, he started to feel something other than pain in his hands. He might actually regain use of them for the remaining ten minutes of his life. He was deposited back where he started, lying flat on his back in a tiny cell, only this time he had a few more wounds and an unconscious roommate.

He almost wished he could find that numb place again, retreat there where everything was hazy and vague and hurt but it was okay because it wasn't really happening to him anymore, just his body. It scared him to even contemplate it; it was the same as having one foot in the grave. He was pretty sure he felt as bad, maybe a little worse, it was tough to tell, as he had when he'd had the fucking plague that shouldn't exist anywhere but in history books. If he survived that, then surely he could survive a bunch of creatures that shouldn't exist anywhere but in storybooks and movies.

The only thing he could actively, or not so actively, do was concentrate on staying alive long enough. Gibbs would come. Ducky would tell them he wasn't already a decaying corpse, Abby would perform magic tricks with evidence, McGee would…do something (hell, Tony didn't know what Probie did when he stood right next to him) and Ziva would enjoy the hell out of apprehending…maybe killing his captors. The flaw in his little fantasy was that vampires didn't get dead by means an NCIS agent would employ. Now, if Ziva were still a Moussad agent, then they'd have something.

Tony shivered. It could work, if only he just stayed with it until they got here so he could tell them what to do. Of course, it wasn't like they'd actually believe him. He didn't believe it until he saw it, and by then it was too late. They'd think he'd lost it. Gibbs might actually do it anyway, though; he had that kind of scary darkness deep in him. He snickered.

"Mind sharing the joke?" Kate. She had an uncanny ability to just show up, as if out of thin air. Must be a vampire thing. Tony mustered enough energy to flick her off. "Oh, your famous last words?"

Oh, man, his time had come today. Time was a bottle about to be broken. Time kept on ticking into the future, except that wasn't true at all and Steve Miller got it wrong. Time after time. Tony thought maybe he had gone insane instead of finding a nice safe, numb haven to crawl into.

"Heather requested a few quality minutes with you." Great. What a way to go, getting molested to death. "It was either her or Alex. Don't say I lack compassion."

"Yeah, you're a real angel."

"Dean, how nice of you to join us."

Kate entered the cell, slinked over and sat on Dean's abdomen. Tony curled up even tighter in sympathy, as the broken, bruised or cracked ribs were confirmed by a very deep groan.

"You sure pass out a lot for a tough guy," Kate said. "I expected you to put up a fight, but I also expected your brother to come in all guns a blazing, so to speak, long before now. I'm not sure, but I think he's not concerned about your welfare very much."

"Sam'll kill you," Dean said, grunting as Kate shifted on him, "without even blinking."

"He'll have to find us first. After Heather's done with Agent DiNozzo, we're moving on. Half the fun of this was supposed to be seeing you two big, tough Winchesters angst like little girls, and with you so…prone to fainting, it won't be nearly as fun. I'll let you heal first."

"Bitch."

Tony watched Kate tear at Dean's shirt, scratching him deeply but nothing more. If anything, she looked disgusted. He didn't have long to watch, as small, cold hands pried at his arms and legs. He bucked, but Heather had been strong when he had strength and now there was no chance at all. Funny, though, nothing hurt anymore. As Heather continued nipping and groping at him, and Kate continued taunting Dean, Tony finally allowed himself retreat to the numb place in his mind. It was surreal, being cognizant but not. Almost pleasant.

"Hurry up, Heather," someone said, far away, and there were more words he couldn't distinguish.

Then someone else yelled, a cry familiar to him. How odd. Tony thought maybe it was himself, maybe, or Dean. They were the only two people he knew of who'd been mostly dead all day. Oh, nonono. At these, his last moments, the need to live unexpectedly rose up again and oh, god, Tony thought, Ned had been _there_ as he'd been bludgeoned and bitten to death. He struggled feebly, befuddled when the weight of Heather on him vanished. Tony blinked a couple of times. Alive, he was still alive. He faded a little, heard sounds of a struggle and someone uttering weak moans and groans. More disparate noises.

A shadow suddenly fell over him. Blearily, he looked up at a massive figure, which swooped down on him. He cried out, willing his limbs to cooperate and defend him again. His body wouldn't move. He heard a deep voice, but damned if he could make out what was being said to him. It was oddly comforting, though, and eased his fear a little. He squinted, saw giant hands and shoulders and lots of hair. Lots and lots of brown hair, and with it a rank odor that filled his nostrils.

"Holy shit, Dean, you didn't tell me Bigfoot was real, too," Tony mewed, and then oblivion claimed him.

* * *

Getting everything done had had taken Sam longer than he'd anticipated. Time had turned out to be his greatest stumbling block. All the messing around he had to do to make sure NCIS didn't make any connection to Dean, to him or to the existence of vampires had been a tremendous thorn in his side, and though important had slowed him down. Breaking into a government agency's headquarters and computer system weren't exactly five-minute jobs, not even with Ash's help. As it was, he was paranoid that he couldn't quite trust Ash, and that Ash's plan wouldn't go without a hitch of some kind. And of course their proximity to Baltimore continued to be a concern for him.

" _Of course they won't. I'll hunt them down myself. But I also want to know what your involvement is in all this, why ten people had to die to deliver messages for you. Fourteen if you count the cops."_ Sam could feel Agent Gibbs' anger through the phone, and he somewhat did regret the subterfuge. And he really regretted all the death. Tracking vampires was trickier than either he or Dean had considered, and they hadn't exactly been able to ask Gordon for his expertise. Even if Gordon wasn't in jail, this was a personal fight. " _What's at stake for you?"_

He winced, but didn't answer. Dean was at stake. Sam set the cordless phone down, wiped sweaty palms down the front of his jeans and then wiped his prints off of the computer and the phone and, well, everything. He had one thing to do yet, and he had to hurry. An expensive apartment wasn't the ideal place to burn trillium, saffron and skunk cabbage to ashes. It might even confuse them more, which wasn't a bad thing. Based on his conversation with Gibbs, he was fairly sure nothing about this made sense to them yet, and he was thankful for that. He moved quickly to the kitchen. DiNozzo had granite countertops, which made a decent surface for a controlled fire.

Three minutes later the place reeked, and so did Sam. He had no idea if masking his scent would work, but he did have the comfort of knowing that only two of the four vampires he'd surveilled from a distance even knew his scent. It was about the only advantage he had. He habitually tidied up after himself, realized it was a waste of time and impossible to get rid of all the ashes. He settled for dumping the remnants in the garbage under the sink. At least NCIS wouldn't have any real idea what this latest evidence was either, and it wasn't anything remotely incriminating. He wiped his prints clean again. He and Dean really should consider wearing gloves; it would save a lot of effort. He shook his head, and left the apartment.

All things considered, he'd been fortunate so far. Sam knew good luck was an unpredictable thing, and couldn't be relied upon to last. He retrieved his weapons and the small gas can from the trunk as discreetly as he could, hoping the shadows of the afternoon would prevent anyone from seeing what he was doing. There was only room for one machete in his jacket, though he would have liked two in case he needed them before the poison took effect. Or he failed to deliver the dead man's blood in the first place. The vampires weren't somewhere out in the open, where he could set up from far away with a crossbow. He dreaded up close and personal fights.

He drove with as much speed as he could without drawing unwanted attention. He parked the car several blocks away, for multiple reasons. The neighborhood was rough, but nothing he couldn't handle on foot. But Dean would _kill_ him if something happened to the Impala. Provided Dean was still alive, that was. Sam chewed the inside of his lip, regretting how long it had taken him to get to the final, in a lot of ways most difficult step. The only reason Kate would keep Dean alive was to use him as bait for a trap, and he counted on that being the case. Alive didn't mean unharmed. He'd seen the victims; he knew what Kate was capable of, and too damned much time had passed since this whole mess started.

Kate really couldn't have chosen a better place to hole up. Sam thought she must have started plotting this out soon after Dad had shot her boyfriend, because she'd thought of details that surprised him. He had his doubts that what vampires felt was actually love, but it must be something powerful. If they mated for life, the bond between two vampires had to be strong. Strong enough that she needed retribution. As Sam moved, his brain automatically dredged up thoughts of any other previous semi-successful hunts, and what might be lurking behind any corner, seeking revenge. Like he needed the distraction? He shook the thoughts out of his head. He walked with a long stride until he was about half a block away, pretended no one would find it odd to see a person toting a gas can around.

The vampire's nest was, somewhat ironically, in an old funeral home. The building was small, and every window had been boarded up securely. The back entrance was also completely barricaded, leaving only the front door. It looked like it had been closed up for a long time. Kate couldn't really expect him to just walk in, but then again Sam hadn't been able to devise any other plan, and he didn't think he had the time now. He might have ensured NCIS would be all the way across town, but in a lower class neighborhood there would probably be regular police patrols. He needed to get in and get out fast. He fingered the four syringes of blood he had in one pocket. He had a feeling that this was going to…suck. Definitely no pun intended.

Sam withdrew two of the syringes and held them in one hand. He moved up the front steps, very aware that every move he made was probably being monitored. He didn't think Kate would go to these lengths, if Dean was still alive and this was a trap, to just kill him. She probably wanted them both to suffer first. He took a deep breath, knocked on the front door, and then crouched down at the side of the door. It was about the lamest tactic he'd ever tried, but his luck held. Kate was apparently busy doing something he didn't want to ponder, and one of her new friends was stupid enough to answer the door. Sam moved swiftly, jamming the syringe in a beefy thigh. He depressed the plunger the whole way, left the needle sticking in the flesh.

He heard a muttered, "Motherfu…" and then a thud.

He darted his head around the threshold, saw the interior of the building for the first time. The entrance room was a bloody mess, and he quickly saw why. There was a body on the floor, and shit was that Dean? His heart started pounding. No one else seemed to be in the room. Sam slid inside, pulled the unconscious vampire in and shut the door behind him. He set the gas can down, pulled the machete out. Sam cringed, trying very hard to not think about how this guy was a victim of circumstance and had probably once been a decent person. And then he took a deep breath and did what he had to do, adding more blood to the mix. Without a sound, he moved to the other body. It wasn't Dean. It was Kate's other male friend. Sam smiled a little, and then he heard murmured voices.

"Hurry up, Heather." That was Kate. "Winchester can't be far away now. Finish it so we can get out of here."

No sooner had she finished speaking when screams filled the air, sounding as though they'd been ripped right out of the person making the noise. The NCIS agent was dead, so that had to be Dean. Sam jerked, horrified by the sounds of torture. He eyed a big metal door, from behind which the cries originated. That was all the time he had to check his surroundings. He leapt into action, no longer too concerned about caution. Two against one were odds he could handle. He had a crazy thought about how screwed he'd be if Kate had managed to turn more people somehow. He ran stealthily for the door, trying to tune out the screams as best he could. As he entered the room, he saw a cage. Bare legs, bare feet. Blood. A petite figure leaning close, seconds away from silencing the cries forever.

"No!" Sam shouted, unable to stop the reaction.

He knew it was a mistake before his call subsided in the air. The petite vampire stopped what she was doing, but then he finally took in the rest of the scene. The person she was on wasn't Dean. _Kate_ was on Dean, and now both vampires looked at him. Too late now, he had to do this. Kate seemed astonished for a second, but she recovered almost immediately, her expression turning…self-satisfied. It was selfish, but he moved for her first. Sam hoped the other guy would be okay, but he could do anything at all with Kate so close to his brother. He barely made it into the cell when the other vampire launched herself at him, grabbing hold of his neck and wrapping her legs around his waist. Intense pain in his left shoulder was quick to follow.

"Heather, _don't_."

Instinctively, Sam reached up and stabbed the syringe into Heather's arm and depressed it. She fell away, her fangs still lodged in his shoulder. He growled in pain as his skin ripped, pulled slightly by her limp weight as she slid to the floor. He glanced at her quickly, making sure enough of the blood from the syringe had entered her system. She didn't move, effectively neutralized for the moment. He grabbed for another syringe and turned back toward Kate…and Dean. No more than five seconds could have passed, but it had been too long. He froze.

"It's about time you showed up, Sam," Kate said. She crouched next to Dean, a hand at his throat. His brother fought weakly. "Dean here had given up on you."

"Don't listen to her, Sam," Dean said, choking.

A quick glance showed him Dean was in rough shape, just like he'd tried to prepare himself for. Internally, Sam was aghast at all the blood, the pain in Dean's voice, how ineffectually he fought against Kate's hand. Externally, he hoped he stared icily. Kate tightened her grip, causing Dean to make horrible gagging sounds. The mostly naked guy moaned insensibly. God, he was in a modern day torture chamber. He tensed and took a step closer.

"What do you want?" Sam said, though he thought he already knew.

"I want lots of things." Kate let her hand relax a little, and Dean gurgled for air. Sam was going to kill the vampire slowly. The anger he felt at seeing Dean like that was…frightening. "I have a proposition – you for him. Drop the poison and the blade."

"You'll let him go?"

"Sure," Kate said with a shrug. "But you come with me."

"Don't, Sammy."

Sam nodded. He understood it was a trap, but he also couldn't just stand there while Dean's life was snuffed out. He glanced at Heather again, and weighed his options. He doubted threatening that one's life would impact Kate. He had no choice, really. He didn't believe Kate for one second, but the need to get Dean out of immediate danger was too compelling.

"Step away from him first."

"No, Sam," Dean said, voice thick. "Don't do this."

Kate laughed. The mostly naked guy whimpered. Dean…Dean's eyes were shining, bleary from pain and yet clear, and he wondered if that was what he looked like the million and one times their situations had been reversed. Sam thought he knew what Kate wanted with him. He knew what fate would be worse than death; he lived with it every day, or at least the thought of it. Kate just wanted to make that happen in a slightly different way. And either way he turned evil, Dean was going to have to kill him. His stomach hurt.

"Fine," she said. She released Dean and stood up. "Now put that stuff down."

Sam made brief eye contact with Dean, and leaned to set the syringe and machete down. Dean scrunched his eyes shut, shook his head weakly. Kate jutted her jaw, silently telling him to slide the tools of his trade away. He did.

"Dean, can you walk?" Kate looked like she wanted to object. Yeah, that was what he thought. There was no way she was letting Dean go. Sam raised a hand. "No. He leaves."

"Sam, I can't just…"

"Go, Dean. It's okay." It wasn't okay, and he knew Dean knew it. Sam gave his brother a tight smile, hoping Dean could figure out he had some sort of an idea. He didn't know what it was himself, yet, only that he wanted Dean out of the cell at the very least. "Go."

Dean rolled to his side, then got to his hands and knees. He started crawling. That was about the time Kate, apparently fed up with how things were going for her, rushed at Sam. She whaled him across the face and shoved him against the cell bars, his wounded shoulder connected hard. Pain stabbed through him. It took half a second to get his bearings, and by then it was too late to give any kind of defense. Kate bit through his shirt, broke skin but didn't feed, like she was just showing him that she could if she wanted to.

"You Winchester boys really disappoint me," she said.

Sam fumbled to get an arm in between him and Kate. She reached up and cracked his head against the cell. He saw stars. Shit. He shook his head, saw her bite into her own arm, watched the blood gush as she lifted her arm toward his face. He tried to look away, but she somehow had his head pinioned. Her arm touched his mouth; he felt blood on his lips.

"You're mine now. I can't wait to see all the special things you can do."

He gave up on trying to get her away from him, and dug in his pocket instead, fished out the last syringe. _I don't think so_ , he thought because he didn't dare to open his mouth, and he heard Dean say the same words at the same time. Sam stuck Kate with the needle. Her eyes widened.

"Oh, damnit," she said stupidly, and her eyes rolled up in the back of her head.

Sam blinked, slumped down as soon as Kate's hold on him loosened. He spat quickly, and rubbed a sleeve across his mouth. He looked down at her, feeling like it had all been too easy after jumping through hoops just to get in there. Along with the syringe he's jabbed into her, he saw another stuck into her left calf. Dean. He smiled, then frowned.

"Dean?" he said. His brother didn't move or make a sound. Sam fell to his knees. Up close Dean looked even worse than he had from a short distance. "Dean?"

He probed Dean's neck gently, nearly folded to the floor when he felt a pulse. Okay, good. He gathered himself and quickly lopped Kate and Heather's heads off before either of them could recover from the poison. So much for doing it slowly – not that he could have. Unconscious, both of them just looked like regular people. Besides that, he took no pleasure in the actual act of killing, even evil things, and hoped he never did. He moved over to the mostly naked guy, who hadn't so much as moved. Sam stood above him, finally recognized his face. Shit, Special Agent Tony DiNozzo was in serious need of immediate medical attention as well. But he was alive, and somehow still conscious. The guy raised his hands feebly, like he was warding off an attack.

"Holy shit, Dean, you didn't tell me Bigfoot was real, too," DiNozzo said in a surprisingly clear voice, then passed out.

Sam rolled his eyes, gave himself a moment to devise the best way to take care of these loose, vampire ends and went to retrieve the corpses from the front room. The mortuary would contain the fire long enough for him to get DiNozzo clear, and hopefully make it hot enough to burn the bodies completely. By the time help (and DiNozzo's boss) showed up, he and Dean would be long gone.


	8. Chapter 8

The image of DiNozzo lying on the sidewalk was one Gibbs couldn't get out of his mind, even as he stood outside the hospital room. Bandages now covered the alarming, mouth-shaped wounds, blankets wrapped around Tony instead of blood-laden jackets. Tony still looked like crap, but it wasn't his overall terrible condition at the fire scene or now that stuck in Gibbs' head. It was the _way_ he was lying. When he'd arrived to find the building burning, Tony had been carefully placed in recovery position, with two disposable heating packs tucked beneath the dirty jackets in a commendable attempt to stave off shock until the paramedics arrived. That wasn't something a kidnapper and would-be murderer would concern himself with.

Gibbs was left feeling conflicted and confused. Sadly, neither was a new sensation.

"DiNutso wake up yet?"

He recognized Fornell's voice and derogatory reference, and so didn't bother turning around. Gibbs didn't bother with an answer either, just shook his head. The doctors had told them it might be a couple of days before Tony was really back with them, and had also expressed concern at the level of psychological trauma that might have happened. He wondered if Tony would be the same person when he finally did awaken. Torture had a tendency to change people's perspective on so many things.

"When he does, I'm going to want to talk to him."

That wasn't Fornell. Gibbs turned around. Beside his FBI counterpart slash pain in the ass stood another agent. A second's appraisal was all it took for him to dislike the guy, for no discernable reason. His posture, maybe, or the bulldoggish determination in his eyes; both things he usually admired in a person. He raised his eyebrows and looked at Fornell, who shrugged.

"Special Agent Hendrickson has this case, Gibbs. I'm just here to make sure things transition smoothly from NCIS to the Bureau."

"I'll call you," Gibbs said, thinking the first face Tony saw when he finally recovered consciousness was not going to be an FBI interrogator's, "the moment he wakes up."

"Do that, Agent Gibbs. I know who did this to your man, and I want to see justice served for it, and for the multitude of other crimes committed by these people," Hendrickson said. "Any information he has is vital."

"The people who did this to DiNozzo are all dead. I think that's justice enough."

"That's what they'd like you to believe." Hendrickson took a step forward, looking earnest and almost obsessed. Gibbs frowned. There was a fine line between determination and obsession. He'd walked that line himself. "I'm not sure you realize who you're dealing with. Actually, I know you don't realize. Dean Winchester is someone you do not want to mess with. He's a dangerous, cold-blooded monster, trained in the art of killing from the time he was about five years old. By his own father. Sam's less of a threat, but he's proven he'll do just about anything for his brother."

"What are you talking about?"

"One of them, probably Sam, broke into your facility and compromised your case, Agent Gibbs. Surely you consider that a problem."

Gibbs bristled at the reminder, and also figured out whom Hendrickson was talking about. So his mystery man had a name, and a brother. Where Hendrickson drew negative conclusions, Gibbs started piecing things together in his head a little bit differently. He thought he finally understood what had motivated the guy to cause him so much grief. While the actual break-in and theft would always chafe, he knew what familial bonds could make people do. That included barbarism, so Hendrickson might have a valid point. Still, though, he thought of Tony out on that sidewalk, and the phone call leading NCIS directly to his side. This Sam Winchester fellow had also called for an ambulance. He had _more_ reason to dislike that guy more than the FBI agent in front of him, and yet he didn't.

"Sam distracted you so he and his brother could kill again," Hendrickson said. "Had you running all over the place. I'm telling you, if we hadn't been held off for as long as we had, the Winchester brothers would be in custody right now."

Sam Winchester had openly admitted to him that he'd sent them on a fool's errand, and at the time Gibbs had been angry. After seeing the blaze at the funeral home, Gibbs realized maybe the guy had thought he was somehow protecting them. From his brother? Maybe, but something felt wrong about that assumption as well.

"Yes, clearly your expertise has gone a long way in catching them so far. They left a bloody trail across the US for you to follow, and according to you they've been doing similar for years. You couldn't catch them, and _you_ knew who you were looking for," Gibbs said. He enjoyed the apoplexy his words caused Hendrickson a little too much. He looked at Fornell. "Now if you don't mind, I'm going to check on my agent. You can…deal with Director Shepard if you need any more than we've already given you. I'm sure you don't want to waste precious time sitting around waiting for DiNozzo to wake up."

"There is a possibility his life could still be in danger. They might want to eliminate him as a witness."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows.

"Is that in their MO?"

"No, but you can never be too safe," Hendrickson said. "I'll say it again, Agent Gibbs: these Winchesters should not be underestimated."

Clearly he didn't have the scope of information Hendrickson did, and none of the background. All Gibbs had was his gut, and his gut told him someone who took the care to extract a prisoner and offer rudimentary aid before calling for professional help wasn't someone who was going to come back and then kill that person while he was in a hospital, surrounded by doctors, nurses and his highly trained friends. His gut was rarely wrong.

"Fine, but if anyone's going to guard DiNozzo it's going to be NCIS. I don't think you have to worry about his safety. He won't be alone at any time. We've got him covered." He nodded down the corridor, where Ziva and McGee approached. Gibbs glanced at Fornell, and said, "Tobias. Agent Hendrickson, I expect you'll keep me updated on your progress."

"Jethro."

Fornell smirked at him and then "transitioned" Hendrickson away from him. Gibbs stayed where he was until he saw them get into an elevator. He doubted Tony was going to have much useable information. If he had known anything, he feared it had been tortured right out of him. He frowned. Hendrickson had to know that, which made him think the FBI agent's evidence against these apparently infamous Winchester brothers wasn't as conclusive as he blustered. He nodded at McGee and Ziva, who looked back toward the elevators.

"Guy thinks he knows who did that to DiNozzo."

"You don't agree?"

"He thinks one of the people responsible was the kid who broke in and compromised NCIS," Gibbs said.

"I don't believe he is right about that," Ziva said. "That individual was certainly a pain in the ass, but he exhibited no physical threat. In fact, the 80-year-old vampire impersonator was a better lead."

"It doesn't seem to fit," McGee agreed. "Why would he tell us where to find Tony? For that matter, he wouldn't have actually _helped_ Tony if he were behind the whole plan."

"Apparently he's got a lunatic brother Agent Hendrickson's hot to pin the actual murders on, and our guy is just the clean up crew."

"That's possible, I suppose," Ziva said with a thoughtful lilt in her voice.

And she would know. Ziva was honorable, though; had shot her own brother because he was a twisted individual. Gibbs narrowed his eyes. He didn't know enough (anything) about the Winchesters to really understand if it was a matter of family loyalty or family psychosis. He'd make it a point to learn more before he made up his mind. He had right to partial access to the FBI's file, and if Hendrickson had a problem with that…

"There's not much we can do about any of it at this point," he said. McGee's eyebrows shot up. "I have a feeling there's a hell of a lot more to the story than we'll ever know. And now's not the time or place, McGee. I'll see what I can get out of the FBI later. You guys go ahead. I have to make a phone call."

He knew Abs was probably pacing by the phone as he spoke. Gibbs gave one last glance into Tony's room, then quickly headed to the floor's waiting area to use the phone. He sat down for the first time in hours. As he suspected, Abby answered the phone after the first ring, and before he'd had the chance to get comfortable.

" _Gibbs, this had better be you and you'd better tell me that Tony's going to be okay. I have to wrap up a few things here thanks to the FBI, but then I'm coming straight there. Just for a little while, I know I have a lot of work to do. I always have a lot of work to do. I just have to see for myself that he's okay. I have to, Gibbs."_ He smiled into the phone at her nonstop talking. She must have already consumed her third Caf-Pow. She'd barely managed a breath throughout that whole burst. _"Gibbs, hello? Are you there?"_

"I'm here, I was just making sure you were done."

" _Sorry, Gibbs. You know how stressed out I've been, and being stuck here is not helping."_

"It's okay. The doctors say Tony's not going to wake up for a while yet." She'd actually be bored within minutes of arriving if she came right now. "They also say he'll make a full recovery. Aside from the blood loss and shock, his physical injuries are pretty superficial. A dislocated shoulder, heavy bruising, some deep abrasions (and by that he meant brutal bites, but no sense going into details), a couple of fingernails ripped off, that's it. He was actually lucky, all things considered."

It actually helped him to say all of that out loud, because Tony looked worse than the injuries implied. Stating them like they were items on a shopping list was easy enough, but if he were a betting man, he'd say that actually accumulating that list hadn't been quite that simple. His mind again reverted to his thoughts on just what it was that Sam Winchester had wanted to keep from them. Gibbs thought about the brother Hendrickson mentioned. Odd that nowhere during the whole embarrassing fiasco had there been any indication of Winchester having a partner. Maybe the Desert Eagle and knife found at the Bowman scene and now totally erased from existence as evidence belonged to the brother. It was circumstantial at best. Hendrickson seemed to think he had a solid case. Now he really wanted to get his hands on information about these notorious Winchesters.

" _That doesn't sound superficial."_

"It doesn't look it, either," he admitted. "DiNozzo's going to be out of commission on his whole gigolo routine for a while, though he'll probably manage to come up with some angle."

" _I know lots of women who'd jump at the chance to nurse him back to health. Some people have a real thing for hot, wounded men."_ He heard the laughter in her voice. She paused. He was about to express his disconcertion at the thread the conversation had taken, but then she said more quietly, _"At least he's alive."_

"Yeah," Gibbs said, just as quietly. From an investigative standpoint, nothing about this case had gone well. He was glad the one thing that mattered the most had. "At least he's alive. I'll call you if there's more news or he wakes up, okay? In the meantime, keep the FBI lackeys on their toes."

" _I will,"_ Abby said. _"And you'd better call."_

"You know you're at the top of my list. And Abs? If Agent Hendrickson asks probing questions about the guy who hacked us and broke into your lab, be as vague as you can."

" _I don't want to ask why, do I?"_

"No."

" _Okay. For you, vague I can do."_

He hung up and just sat there for a minute or two, head leaned against the sofa's back. Hospitals always had the most uncomfortable furniture, in waiting rooms, in the actual rooms…everything about a hospital spoke of discomfort, as if family and friends of those ailing interned needed more misery. Gibbs stood up, and pulled himself up out of the depressing thoughts. He walked back to Tony's room, pausing at the coffee vending machine along the way. He could use a cup, but there was no way he was going to waste his money on the garbage they put in dispensers. There was a coffee bar downstairs. He moved briskly down the corridor.

His attention gravitated to two figures speaking with the charge nurse at the central nurse's station. He stiffened as one of them straightened to full height and they started walking away. The images of a floppy-haired felon might have been removed from NCIS' records, but they were imprinted on his memory. The taller of the two was none other than Sam Winchester. He _must_ be crazy, showing up here. Gibbs started walking faster, intent on not letting him get away.

Winchester glanced up, then down, then his head snapped back up again, and their eyes locked at a distance. Just like that, Winchester was moving fast, the other guy in tow. They disappeared into a stairwell when Gibbs was still thirty steps away. He didn't know why he didn't raise an alarm or alert anyone else. That would have been the smart thing to do. Gibbs pushed the stairwell door open, took one quick look up and then heard footsteps from a flight or two down.

"Hey, stop," he shouted. They didn't stop, but they weren't moving as quickly as people making an escape should. It didn't take him long to get close enough to see Sam. "Winchester."

That made the guy halt, and look up warily.

"How did you…" Sam whispered.

"Know your name? You are on the FBI's Most Wanted list, after all." Gibbs watched Winchester flinch, and he kind of enjoyed it but not as much as he'd enjoyed digging at Hendrickson before. There was something so wrong about that. "Is that your brother? Dean, right? We've been advised to keep someone on guard with DiNozzo at all times, in case you showed up. And here you are."

"Dean wanted to return something to Agent DiNozzo and make sure he was going to be okay," Sam said, nervous and agitated. They were effectively trapped. One word from Gibbs and security would be all over them. "That's all."

Dean stayed tucked behind Sam, not hiding, exactly. Gibbs noticed he was holding himself carefully. He leaned down so he could see better, and what he saw…Dean Winchester looked as rough as DiNozzo, beat to holy hell; he might actually look worse. A closer perusal showed Sam had a nice shiner, held his left arm close to his body, and he stood stiffly. Gibbs recognized the latter posture as a sign of injury as well. He frowned. If Dean was the kidnapper and killer, Tony might have inflicted some damage during capture. But he couldn't have inflicted those extensive wounds, or the hidden injuries Sam had. Dean took a wavering step backward, slumping slightly. Sam caught him gently, and they exchanged words he couldn't hear. He didn't have to. He recognized the closeness.

"You did everything you did because they, whoever they are, had your brother too," he said. "And whoever they are, they're vicious sons of bitches."

"Yes." Sam twitched a little. "But they won't ever hurt anyone again."

There had been nothing left in the building. No identifiable human remains anyway, just an inexplicable and ominous cage. But Sam Winchester was telling him the real killers had been in there and were themselves now dead and gone.

"If you're saying what I think you're saying, then you're giving me pretty good reason to bring you in and let the FBI have you."

"We're not bad people, Agent Gibbs, despite what you think or might've heard," Sam said. "We've never hurt a _person_ , at least not –"

"Sam… No," Dean said, finally speaking. He sounded old, tired though he couldn't have even hit his thirtieth birthday yet. "There's nothing we can say here that'll explain it, at least not in a way you'll believe. Ask Tony."

"Well, I can't ask Tony at the moment, can I? He's lying in a hospital bed after nearly dying," Gibbs said. Dean said "Tony" like he was a friend of DiNozzo's. Familiar. Comfortable. "You're asking me to take _your_ word."

"Yeah, I guess we are," Sam said.

Sam glanced at his brother, appearing for all the world like a lost puppy, and then gazed back up at him. If the look on Sam's face wasn't a plea for him to look the other way Gibbs didn't know what was. Gibbs, as strange as it was, found that he believed Sam Winchester. And his brother. He stared for a few more seconds. The only crazy thing about either of them was that Dean was up and walking when he looked like he had one foot in the grave. These kids, and they were just kids to him, weren't the guilty parties here. The law said he should arrest them right there and then, or at the very least Sam for the felonies he'd committed (not that anything could be proven). He should notify Agent Hendrickson.

"You should leave," Gibbs said, hoping he wasn't making a huge mistake. "Watch your backs. And I don't want to see you in my city again."

"Of course," Sam said softly. "Thank you, Gun…Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs narrowed his eyes. The kid had almost called him "gunny." Not sir. That training Hendrickson had alluded to was Corps, which explained a lot and nothing at the same time. He stood where he was as Sam started to usher Dean down the stairs. Dean made a show of resisting the help, but Gibbs saw he let Sam keep a hand on his shoulder. He hadn't made a mistake. He just wished he understood how he knew that.

* * *

"That was pretty stupid," Sam said.

Dean knew that had been coming, he was just surprised it took Sam as long as it did to say it. They were well out of the DC area, and the slight reprimand was really something he had expected before they even exited the hospital. He shifted again, the millionth time he'd done so. No position was comfortable for him, and wouldn't be for a while. His ribs had taken a major beating and his head hurt like hell. He had no intention of admitting just how sore he was to Sam, though. His brother was already down on him for not letting himself get checked into a hospital. The free clinic doctor had practically gone eye-popping mad when he'd refused, and Sam was right behind him. Dean had fared worse in his day, and not that long ago. At least he hadn't woken up with a breathing tube down his throat. He twitched a little, and forced himself not to go there.

"Which part?" There'd been much stupidity to choose from, really. Sam darted him a look, which he guessed was supposed to be curious but was filled with the same worried, paranoid expression he'd been on the receiving end for hours now. Like Sam thought he was going to disappear right out of the car. "The part where _I_ got busted by feds and then kidnapped by vampires, the part where _you_ thought it was a good idea to hack a government agency's computer system, or maybe the little chit chat we had with your good friend whathisname in the stairwell of Bethesda?"

"Well, that last part wasn't really a choice thing, Dean. What was, was being there in the first place. We wouldn't have been that close to being taken in if you hadn't insisted on going. I couldn't get you to check into a hospital, but you were happy to go to another for visiting hours. Tell me how that makes sense. You could have just mailed the guy his fancy tie, or we could have kept it. It was a nice tie."

One point to Sam. Actually, about a thousand points to Sam, Dean admitted, for saving his bacon, all the while subverting federal agents. He hadn't doubted his brother for a minute. Well, if he had to be honest, there were several moments of doubt (and fear and even worry), but his overall faith in Sam remained solid as ever. That was, when he wasn't preoccupied by the thought of having to save or kill Sam or maybe do both at the same time. Shit, Dean was like the king of disclaimers all of a sudden. He knew it had been dumb to try to make sure DiNozzo really was okay, but it was also something he felt he had to do. Something about sharing a cell and torture with a person made them important enough to check on, and remember.

"It seemed important to him. Besides, it all worked out," he said, because it wasn't like he could say any of that other stuff without broaching that excruciating chick flick territory.

"Yeah." Sam shot him a smile. "It always does."

So far Dean thought they'd pretty much been lucky more than anything, and that was dangerous. Luck wasn't like skill. It wasn't quantifiable and it sure as hell wasn't reliable. As soon as he could breathe without feeling as though Cossacks were dancing on his chest, he was going to make sure they maintained a more rigorous training schedule. He admitted he could hone up on his research skills, and the same was true for Sam and the more physical aspects of hunting. They both did all right, but all right didn't always cut it. They could do better.

For now, though, he drifted. The doctor at the free clinic _had_ given him pain meds with slightly more kick than he could get over the counter, and now that Sam had got his slight chastisement out of his system Dean felt himself slipping back into a drowsy haze. Sam ejected the Zepplin tape in favor of the radio, set it to some damned emo station with music that made Dean want to rip his ears off. He attempted to mumble his protest, but it never really happened. He fell asleep instead.

 _The first sense that came back to him was smell. He smelled blood and sweat and fear and death, which didn't bode well. Sound was next, though it seemed like he was submerged under water and nothing was clear, no noise intelligible. He thought there were voices, but they sounded far away and hollow. Touch followed. Every bit of him that touched the hard surface beneath his back hurt like hell. Breathing hurt. He tried to remember where he was, where_ _ **they**_ _were, but the specifics of the case eluded him. Something must have happened, something bad._

 _After what seemed like forever, he managed to open his eyes. The second he blearily saw the ceiling, it all flooded back to him. The cell, the torture, the NCIS agent. The vampires. Sam. The last image Dean had of his brother was Sam pinned by that bitch Kate, seconds from being turned. His heart started racing. He didn't know what had happened after he'd passed out. He was actually afraid of looking anywhere but at the dull gray ceiling, because if Sam was Sam he'd be right next to Dean, trying to wake him up and that meant Sam was undead or Sam was dead, dead._

 _Suddenly Sam's face hovered right above his, then Kate pushed her way into his line of sight. Dean stared in horror, still unable to move, as their faces mutated and transformed vampirically and then distorted further, wobbling as though they were reflections in a fun house mirror._

 _No. Oh, nonono. It had happened. He'd failed, lost Sam. Sam was a thing, a monster, now. He closed his eyes again, unable or unwilling to see Sam that way. He let himself float in a dark void, let the horrible voice of his not-brother fade behind the dull thrum in his ears. After a few minutes it struck him that he had no choice now but to find a way to kill Sam. He wondered why Sam and Kate hadn't already ripped him to pieces. He tried to lift an arm, but he couldn't move. It was as if a thick blanket were on top of him squeezing the air from his lungs and the strength from his muscles. Sam was lost. Gone. Dean had always suspected losing more family would be his undoing, and with Dad gone…and now Sam. He couldn't._

 _The pressure on his chest grew. He opened his eyes. Sam's face was still above his, his gruesome, fanged mouth gaping in a horrific grin. With a deep laugh, Sam descended on him, fangs digging into flesh and ripping._

His heart pounding, Dean bolted upright. Or he tried to, anyway. He didn't get very far, his rib injuries stabbing their irritation at him. Shit, now _he_ was having nightmares, though he supposed he should be grateful they were of things that might have happened but weren't going to happen instead of actual portents. He shot a look Sam's way, hoping against hope that his brother hadn't noticed his rough return to awareness. Those damned puppy dog eyes were aimed in his direction.

"Dream again?" Sam said, all empathy and sincerity, then looked back to the road.

"Yeah." Dean winced his way into a more upright position, one hand on his ribs. No use lying about it. "Something like that. Same thing, over and over."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"But you know you can, right?"

"Oh, jeez," Dean groaned. "Please don't make me go through this shit."

"Hey, man, I'm just saying." Thankfully, Sam didn't push anything else except the gas pedal. He even took a second to nudge the Zepplin tape back in and turn the volume up a hair. "I think I'm going to pull in at the first skeezy motel I see."

"Okay."

Now that was something Dean wouldn't protest, except maybe the skeezy part. He didn't know that Gibbs guy from Adam, but something told him the agent wasn't going to run right to put the FBI on their tails; that didn't mean they could start poshing up their stays. He was positive Sam had brushed over the details of his exploits while he himself had been locked up, but Sam's instincts on it seemed to match his own. He sat quietly, and tried not to think about his dream or of Sam turning evil in a much different and, he suspected, worse way than becoming a vampire. It wasn't so easy to stop the thoughts these days. He'd thought telling Sam what Dad told _him_ would help, but it only made it more unbearable. Shit. He pressed a couple of his fingers against his temple, a futile attempt to keep his head from pounding more.

"You going to make this?"

"Yeah, I've had worse." Dean squinted out the window, into the dark. Sam hadn't really told him where they were going, he just figured the guy had a plan, the way he drove with purpose. "Where the hell are we?"

"Crossed the border into Kentucky while you were sleeping."

"Shit, Kentucky. It's as bad as Florida." Like it wasn't bad enough that he'd just endured captivity by a bunch of vampire rednecks? "I swear if we hear even the first few chords of _Dueling Banjos_ , we're leaving."

"I didn't want to go north through Ohio because we're probably wanted for murder there by now, thanks to Kate. There's nothing wrong with Kentucky, Dean."

He nodded halfheartedly, and they didn't speak again for the next several miles. Dean saw a sign that read "Grayson, 3." That didn't sound too terrible. He yawned, closed his eyes and leaned his head back. He lifted his head back up and somehow the car was stopped and he was alone. Damned meds. Dean rubbed his eyes, and cracked the door open. He eased out of the car. Sam was probably inside getting the room at the…Knight's Inn. That promised to be all kinds of classy. He opened the rear door and pulled out their duffel bags, ignoring the subsequent pull on his aching body.

One of them must not have been zipped shut all the way. Something popped out of it, hit the ground and rolled. He groaned. Sam and his stupid girly shampoo for that out of control mop of his. Dean debated leaving it for Sam to retrieve from wherever it had got to, but considering his brother had just broken into a vampire's lair and rescued him, the least he could do was get the frou-frou shampoo. He wandered slowly, leaning with care for his ribs. The bottle wasn't on the other side of the Impala. He sighed and kept going toward the crappy little rusted out Dodge Omni that was parked a space away from where Sam had pulled up. It wouldn't surprise him at all if the shampoo bottle were possessed by some kind of demon or sprite or something. He had to warn Sam that the yellow-eyed demon was trying to turn him by his morning lather. He snorted.

Dean finally spotted the bottle between the two rear tires of the Omni. The car was not much more than a tin can on wheels, but in his current health, he'd have trouble getting the bottle from under there. He gave another shallow sigh and got down on his knees. The things he did for his brother…

"Dean?"

The shout was panicked and deep, it came just as he crawled under the bumper, and it startled Dean enough that he jerked up and just might have made him give himself a concussion. Okay, maybe not, but he did end up on the ground with shards of pain stabbing through him. He took short, quick breaths and tried to put the soreness to the back of his mind.

"Dean?"

What the hell was Sam's problem? Since he was down there anyway, Dean grabbed the bane of the last five minutes of his life, rolled over and scooted out from under the car. Sam was _right there_ , practically glomped right on top of him.

"What the hell are you doing, Dean?" Sam said.

From his horizontal point of view, Sam's forehead looked all veiny and the rest of his face distorted. Dean cringed, not liking what his mind conjured up. Sam helped him ease up. He shoved the bottle of creamy orange wuss shampoo into his brother's hands.

"Dude, your friggin' shampoo rolled out of your bag and all the way over here. I was just picking it up. What's your problem?"

"Damnit." Sam sat down next to him, right hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I came out and the car doors were open but you were nowhere to be seen and I thought..."

Oh. He hadn't even considered that, but then he hadn't considered picking up a bottle would take Herculean time and effort. He shouldn't feel unnerved by Sam's unfounded (this time) panic and concern, because Sam tended toward both of those things naturally. It was just disconcerting to actually know that Sam was freaked out about losing him somehow. In a way, it was also kind of cool. Dean didn't quite know how to react except to clap Sam on the kneecap awkwardly and look away.

"You were worried. That's so sweet," he said, keeping his voice semi-mocking and light.

"You scared the shit out of me, Dean," Sam said intensely, and suddenly Dean realized he wasn't really talking about the Shampoo Escapade. "Just…don't go off by yourself for a while, okay?"

"I can do that."

And it was true that as fucking boring as it was to sit around while Sam researched, and as Bobbsey Twin-y as it felt to always be joined at the hip, they really were stronger as a pair. As a family. That was a lesson they really should have learned long before now. For him, a lot of it was his inherent need to protect, but there was more to it. Sometimes it was just nice to not be alone.

"Help me up?"

"Yeah."

Sam hauled him gently to his feet. Dean let his brother grab both duffels and lead them toward the room. The pain in his chest subsided to dull throbbing, but it was probably time for another dose of medicine. He was wiped and could use the sleep anyway. The first thing he did was lie down on the lumpy, somehow the most comfortable thing in the world, bed while Sam puttered around the room.

"So, you ever going to tell me where we're going?" he said sleepily.

"Sure." Sam moved over to the bed, stood over him, smiling. "Eventually the Grand Canyon, just like you wanted. But first we'll be making a stop to see Missouri."

"But I've already seen plenty of…" That was when it dawned on him Sam meant Missouri the person, not the state. He groaned. "Shit, Sam, haven't I been through enough for one week?"


	9. Chapter 9

He wasn't in his own bed. He didn't know where he was, but he knew that he wasn't home. The noises were all wrong, and the smells. Air, cool and controlled, forced its way up his nose in a steady stream and there was incessant beeping. He also thought he had a full body ache going on. It was difficult to tell, because he also had a full body numbness going on. He felt a little like he was drifting on a river. No, it was more like he had been drifting and was now being pulled slowly to shore. It all struck him as familiar, like he'd experienced the same feeling recently. Maybe even repeatedly. He opened his eyes and saw white and grey and metal. There was nothing familiar about those things. He'd half expected to see…bars.

And then he heard murmured voices, and a face appeared above him. He blinked a couple of times, trying to clear his eyes of their sleep-fuzziness.

"You staying awake this time, DiNozzo?"

"What?" he said stupidly.

Tony blinked a couple more times. Gibbs' face disappeared from above him, only to be replaced nearly immediately by several people he didn't recognize. There was poking, prodding, pain starting to upstage the numbness and then there were some questions that clued him in that something bad must have happened. Well, duh. He knew his name, his birthday and other basic information, but he apparently answered incorrectly with the date, as the moment he spoke he got frowns all around. He frowned back. Apparently he'd been unconscious for a while, so it seemed reasonable to him that he didn't know the date.

"What?" he said again, to Gibbs and not to the medical entourage. "What day is it? What happened?"

"We were hoping you could tell us that, Tony." McGee was a bodiless voice, somewhere off to Tony's right. He lifted his head, put it back down after half a second. His head had to weigh about forty pounds. Maybe that was what happened. He'd suddenly become The Man With the Giant Head. Sounded like a B-movie title and plot. He would have laughed, but McGee moved closer, into his view, and the guy looked worried. "At least the details."

"Of what?" He couldn't be the only one already tired of hearing him say that. He moved an arm about a quarter of an inch to the side, and regretted it. "Ohhhh, man, I feel like crap."

"He seems lucid," one of the medical people – a doctor? – said. "Would you folks mind stepping out for a few minutes while we do a more in depth check on him?"

Gibbs frowned, his face full of creases, and looked like he was going to refuse. Oh. Whatever had happened, it had been bad enough for Gibbs to worry too. Real, actual concern. After a moment, though, Gibbs backed away. Tony only paid partial attention to the doctors and nurses, concentrating instead on remembering anything at all that might have happened to him to make him end up lying there in the hospital with everyone looking at him like he might explode or something. He glanced down, saw a nurse changing a bandage. The wound…he closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw teeth and nails, and felt hot breath. Pain.

"Mr. DiNozzo, are you all right? Is this causing you discomfort?"

That was as stupid a question as the asking him the date. The numbness had nearly vanished entirely now, and he was left with a dull ache all over, sharpness wherever there was a bandage. He opened his eyes and stared down at himself. There were lots of bandages. Teeth and nails and hot breath.

"It tickles a bit," he said. "And you can call me Tony."

"If it gets to be too much, let us know, Tony. We're not going to put you on a self-regulated drip."

As they kept up with their examination, Tony started having more definable flashes of memory. They came at him fast and furious. He remembered Dean Winchester, from Petty Officer Bowman's home, and from somewhere else. Somewhere worse. He remembered the bars he had half expected to see upon wakening. He remembered weakness, pain, pain and then some more pain. He remembered the story Winchester had told him about vampires, and thinking it was crazier than all get out. But a second later Tony also remembered teeth and biting and the strength and speed of his captors that was just plain uncanny. Unnatural. There wasn't much else. No, wait. There was…Bigfoot. None of it made much sense, but he had this strange feeling Bigfoot had saved his life, and that in a way so had Dean Winchester.

"They say you're back with us for real this time." Tony looked over toward the door, and at Gibbs who stood at the threshold. He hadn't realized the medical staff left. His boss moved over. No one followed him, and Tony wondered where McGee had gone. "No more interesting talk about the scary, evil women with pointy teeth and sharp nails, and the reality of Bigfoot's existence, huh?"

"What?"

"You weren't very coherent, Tony. I have to say your imagination is pretty vivid, even when you're at death's door. You might consider collaborating with McGee, write a book or something." Oh. Death's door. Gibbs had a small smile on his face, teasing him about whatever he'd rambled about while delirious, but the smile didn't make it to his eyes. Tony cringed. "So I need to know for sure. Are you with me, DiNozzo?"

"I'm with you, Boss," he said, automatically. "Kind of. I'm a little confused."

"Confused is better than dead." Tony blinked again. Those lines on Gibbs' face were deep, his eyes piercing. He figured that was as close as he was going to get to an "I was worried" and that was okay. He knew. Gibbs leaned down close and studied him. "I know you have a lot of questions. So do I. I have answers to some of yours, but first I have something to tell you, and I have to make sure you understand. Understand?"

"Yes."

"The FBI are going to want to talk to you about what happened, and about their suspects for Petty Officer Bowman's death. They believe their suspects had you. They also believe their suspects are responsible for the deaths of at least fourteen other people."

"Okay?" He took it back. He didn't understand what Gibbs was talking about, but he did understand there was urgency in his boss's words. His heart started thumping a bit harder, and he thought of teeth and biting and cold, unfeeling laughter. Fourteen people dead. Dead Ned. And, oh shit, the cops on Bowman's scene? That was only five. Six, with Bowman. Tony lied, "Got it so far."

"I know you don't remember anything, but that won't stop this Agent Hendrickson guy from pressing. He's going to want as much information as you have on someone named Dean Winchester. Ring any bells?"

Oh, boy, did it. Tony quickly glanced up at Gibbs' face, then looked away from the intense gaze. Even in his confused state, he started piecing together Gibbs' odd behavior and questioning. The kind folks at the good old FBI were planning to pin this on all on Winchester for some reason. Could he be sure they weren't wrong? He didn't hesitate in answering his own question. Yes. Absolutely. But he couldn't tell anyone why. He knew that as intrinsically as he knew Dean Winchester was not guilty of kidnapping, torture and murder – definitely in his own case, making it highly improbable in the others. He thought about Dean explaining how people misunderstood him and what he did. Tony really got that now.

"Winchester didn't do anything to me, Boss, or anyone else."

"Yeah, I figured," Gibbs said in an offhand way. "You remember something?"

"Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"You really wouldn't believe me if I told you, Gibbs. I don't know if I believe it myself." Gibbs clenched his jaw a couple of times, looked displeased with that particular non-explanation. Unfortunately, it was the best Tony could do at the moment. Maybe later he'd be able to tell the real story. He doubted it. "I just know Winchester was as much a prisoner as I was. I don't know much else, but that I do know. Well, that, and I have this strange feeling someone else helped us."

"It's not so strange. I'd say it was a fact."

Gibbs was being coy. Gibbs knew something he didn't know.

"You know who it was."

"Let's just say I'm pretty sure I know why you kept talking about Bigfoot when you were still out of your head."

Tony furrowed his eyebrows, tried to figure it out. It didn't take long. He thought it was ultimately the reason why the whole thing happened.

"The brother," he said slowly. A little brother who was very, very large and as good as Dean had claimed all along. Tony wished he could actually have met him, thanked him for the apparent rescue. "There was a brother."

"You had a couple of visitors while you were still in la-la land," Gibbs said. Gibbs reached out and proffered something to him. Tony reached up, and damned if his arm wasn't as heavy as his head. It didn't matter that he didn't have the energy to lift it up to see. He knew what it was the instant his fingers touched the material. "They came by to check on you, and one of them left this for you."

"My tie." He remembered taking it off, being stupidly concerned with keeping it safe where the rest of his clothes had been ruined. He remembered blood and pain and terror. And through all that, Winchester had managed to keep Tony's tie in pristine condition. He laughed softly. "That was very thoughtful."

"And very stupid."

"Gibbs, Winchester didn't _do_ anything," he said again.

"I know that, DiNozzo." He did? Tony glanced up. Gibbs was looking at him with an inscrutable expression. He had a feeling he was missing some very important pieces to the story. He really hoped Gibbs planned on sharing them at some point. "The FBI doesn't. From what I've been able to information-gather, they also don't seem interested in considering contradictory statements regarding the entire Winchester family, and there are a lot of very odd contradictions. Sharp teeth and pointy nails kind of odd."

Tony couldn't help it. His eyes widened, and the heart monitor he was attached to gave him away. Gibbs didn't pay any attention.

"So it's really too bad you have absolutely no recall of the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours. This Agent Hendrickson guy will be disappointed you don't have anything to offer. He's on his way over to talk to you right now."

Tony gave his boss a slow if confused smile. Maybe it was the pain medication making him fuzzy, or maybe it was that the pointed way Gibbs spoke was so out of character. Oh. Gibbs was telling him to lie, which made him uncomfortable and yet relieved at the same time. That explained the clandestine nature of this discussion. McGee couldn't be around to hear this, even if it was just insinuation and hinting. The fewer people that knew he knew anything at all, the better.

"Yes, it really _is_ a shame I won't have much useful information to give to him."

It wouldn't really be a lie. It wasn't like Tony could tell the truth as he saw it without risking the possibility of losing his job or maybe even being thrown in a psych ward somewhere. Because as crazy as it was Tony now believed vampires really existed, in that same, fundamental way he knew that he'd been saved by the brothers Winchester.

And Tony wasn't going to be the one that kept them from saving more people from whatever other creatures might be out there going bump in the night.


End file.
